Learn To Love
by Chikorita-Trainer1
Summary: Something traumatic happens to one member of the Batfamily, and his resulting actions send the rest of the family spiraling down into a deep depression that they can't seem to help each other out of. Multi-chapter and switching points-of-view. Please read and review.
1. Nice Guys Finish Last

**Learn To Love Chapter 01: Nice Guys Finish Last**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything I might make references to.

Author's Note: This story has been in the works for a long time now. At first I just started writing it as an outlet for my anger, but now I actually want to post it. As you read it, you might notice something about the chapters. Just a little something I threw in for fun. And if you don't notice it, don't worry; it's not important.

* * *

Bruce's POV

This is the story of one of the most painful times in my family's life. Until now, I thought that losing a person was the most painful thing I could go through, but I was wrong. _Almost_ losing someone is much worse. Because then you're stuck with the feeling of how you're ever going to prevent this from happening again. And this wasn't the kind of thing you can prevent by cracking down harder on criminals. No, the cause of this incident is forever living inside our hearts. This near-death experience was the result of emotion. And emotions cannot be arrested, cannot be incarcerated, cannot be sentenced, and cannot be killed.

This motive of death will always exist, and that's what scares me. This could happen to any one of us at any point in our lives, and there's no way to see it coming.

For the first time in a while, all three of my sons are together under the roof of Wayne manor. The night is cold, the crime rate is low, and the evening is proving pretty uneventful.

It's not often I can have a peaceful night with my family.

I am sitting comfortably in a chair by the fireplace, reading the newspaper. Dick and Damian are sitting on the floor, petting the dog, Titus. Tim is over in the corner by the bookshelves, reading something while standing up. It doesn't take a detective to tell that he's deliberately avoiding playing with his brothers.

Tim and Damian haven't gotten along since day one, and it pains me. I never say it, but nothing would make me happier than if my three sons could all hang out together, maybe throw a football around in the yard, and Alfred and I could watch from the window as they laughed and played together, like brothers should.

But I suppose that's asking too much. It should be enough that I have sons in the first place, whether I wanted them to come into my life or not. And I am grateful to have all three of them. They give my life meaning.

I excuse myself for a moment to go into the kitchen, where Alfred is cleaning up after dinner. I stand in the doorway and watch him, and then heave a tired, but happy, sigh.

"Is it not time to begin this evening's patrol, Master Bruce?" my butler asks.

"Not for another half-hour," I say.

"What brings you to the kitchen?" he asks playfully.

"I'm just so happy to have them," I admit softly. _I'm so fucking happy, I could cry._ "They're all safe, and alive, and here with me. And they're not fighting, that's a big plus."

"Yes, Master Bruce. Moments like these do not come too often. It's best we savor them," Alfred confirms.

As if immediately jinxed, we suddenly hear a THUNK, followed by the dog barking.

"I DIDN'T DO IT!" I hear Tim yell.

"What the f-?" I censor myself, trudging back into the living room. The coffee table is on its side, Damian is on his back (obviously he tripped backwards over the table), and Dick is lying helpless under Titus's humongous body and long legs, laughing his head off.

"OW! You clumsy oaf! What the fuck were you trying to do?" yells Damian.

"What happened?" I groan, pulling Titus by the collar off of Dick, and helping him to his feet.

"Damian was holding out his hand for Titus to sniff, and then Dick slapped him on the butt, which startled Titus, and he kind-of leaped forward and knocked Damian backwards over the table," Tim explains.

"Ha, ha, ha!" I chuckle, propping the table right-side up.

"It wasn't funny, Father!" growls Damian, picking himself up and cracking his back.

"I'm sorry, son. Are you alright?" I ask.

"Fine," he grumbles. "Oh, shut up!" he shouts at Dick, who is still laughing.

"I'm sorry! It was funny!" he insists between giggles.

"Screw you!" Damian huffs before stomping away and going upstairs.

"Oh for crying out-" mutters Dick. "Damian, come back! I'm sorry!" The apology is completely insincere, as it should be, but he follows my young son anyway.

"It _was_ mostly Dick's fault," Tim says, putting his book back on the shelf and walking over to me with his hands in his pockets.

"I know," I say. "Could you get the two of them back down here? We've got to get ready for patrol soon."

"Sure," Tim sighs. I immediately realize that I shouldn't have asked him to do that, and I should have just done it myself. He really hates interacting with Damian. But it's too late now, he's already halfway up the stairs.

* * *

Dick's POV

Damian is pouting on his bed, which is really retarded now that I look at it; it's just a mattress, wide enough for one person, and his pillow is a cylinder, which leads me to believe that he can't really lie on his side, and I'm thinking…that's got to be pretty uncomfortable, right?

Anyway, I touch his shoulder and he growls without looking at me.

"I'm sorry, D," I say humorously. It's not the nicest apology, but I think he's taking this way too personally. "It was an accident, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. It hurt, you know?"

"What did? Falling over the table or me laughing at you?" This time he does turn to look at me, and it's not a nice look. "OK, OK. Is your back alright?" I ask, lifting up his shirt to check for a bruise. Obviously he doesn't see this coming, as he gets really touchy at this.

"What are you doing?" he cries, quickly standing up and backing away from me.

"Checking for a bruise! Gosh! Have an aneurism!" I say.

"I doubt there's a bruise. I fell flat, I didn't hit anything," he says. I lift my hands up in defeat.

"Alright!"

Damian allows his facial features to soften and sits back down on the bed. I join him and wrap my arm around his shoulder.

"I'm glad we can at least spend some time together, you know?" I say. He nods. I smile and snake my other arm around his waist, and pull him on top of my torso as I lie down.

"What are you doing?" he cries angrily.

"Shush," I say softly, cuddling him close to me. "Just hold still a sec." He grumbles, but allows me to hug him for a minute.

"Never knew you're such a funny guy," he mutters. I think it's his lame attempt at making a joke. Or maybe he was just being sarcastic, because everyone knows I'm a funny guy.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 01  
Please review, thanks.


	2. Scattered

**Learn To Love Chapter 02: Scattered**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Tim's POV

I walk down the halls in Wayne Manor, towards my bedroom. I hear voices talking softly, and I stop in my tracks.

"You're so cute, Damian," I hear Dick say. "You're like the baby brother I never had."

I literally feel my heart stop when I hear that. I can't hear it beat after that. I might have even stopped breathing. He couldn't have said that. He couldn't have actually said that.

I exhale, and I'm scared by how scared and feeble it sounds. My breath is shaky, like I'm crying. But I'm not crying, am I?

I listen, hoping that I heard wrong, or that he'll say something else, correcting himself. But I don't hear anything of the sort.

"I am not!" grumbles Damian. Good. Maybe the demon will set him straight, and remind him that he already has a baby brother. ME.

"Yes you are, you're my baby brother!" Dick teases again. OK, I'll give them some time. He's bound to mention me in the next few seconds, right? He has to.

I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

He doesn't. Dick doesn't mention me. He just called Damian his baby brother, the brother he never had, and he didn't mention me.

I inhale once more, slowly, and shakily. There's no way in hell I'm not going to start crying. I don't feel any tears yet, but they must be coming. I continue on my way to my room, and shut the door slowly. I don't want anyone finding me right now.

I look around my room; at the framed picture of me and my parents at a ball game. At the framed picture beside my bed of me and Conner. At my computer, which is turned off, but I know my desktop background is a picture of me, when I was little, sitting on Dick's knee when I met him for the first time at Haley's Circus. Reminds me of the times we've shared.

I sink to my knees, feeling like someone tied a 600 pound lead weight to my heart. I feel my nose start to prickle and itch on the inside, which means I'm about to cry. The corners of my mouth feel like they're being pulled down, and my vision blurs with tears. I try to sob, but there's no sound. I feel like I'm going to choke; I can't seem to pass any air through my throat. I grasp at my head and sob silently to myself and try to reassess the situation.

I thought that Dick and I were brothers. Forget the technical and legal terms…I thought he loved my like a brother. Even when Damian became part of the family, some part of me still believed that he cared for me. But now I know for sure; Dick does not love me. He never did. Damian is the only one he sees as his little brother.

Clearly he didn't know I was listening to that, and surely he never meant for me to hear it, but why else would he say it? It all makes sense: he replaced me with Damian as Robin, he defends Damian when he and I fight; always telling ME to back off. It's so obvious. Dick doesn't love me.

He doesn't love me.

He doesn't love me.

Dick doesn't love me.

I keep repeating the words in my head, trying to see if I think them over and over enough, they'll eventually lose all meaning, but it doesn't work. Every time I think those words it feels like someone is squeezing my heart in a vice.

I can't feel anything but pain. Actual, _physical_ pain in my chest.

My throat feels like it's closing up, and my vision is already as blurry as hell because of my tears.

I need action.

I need to get this pain out somehow. I need to exercise, or hit something, or someone. I have all this pent-up rage in my body and I need to exert it somehow.

I know where to start.

I shakily pick myself up from the floor and wobble over to my bookshelf. From there I take my photo album; full of pictures of my friends and family. I go through it page by page, and every three or so pages, I find a picture of Dick. Every time I find one, I remove it from its slot and rip it up, making sure that the first tear goes right through Dick's face.

This still isn't enough. This isn't helping at all. I pick up the album and hurl it across the room. Its pages are so glossy that the force causes a bunch more photos to slip out of the pages and flutter down all over my room. And now I've got some scattered pictures lying on my bedroom floor.

I still need release from this pain. What more can I do? What more can I destroy? My room is full of valuables; books, electronics, even some old toys from when I was little. There's no point in destroying anything that doesn't remind me of Dick, so I can't trash those.

I crawl over to my bed and reach under it, hoping to find some insignificant object to take out my frustration on. I manage to find a combat boot; something I probably haven't worn since I was like 15. I throw that at my bookshelf as hard as I can. It collides with the shelf so hard that it dislodges it and an entire row of books slides diagonally off and onto the floor. This still does nothing to ease my pain.

I reach back under my bed, hoping to find the other boot, but instead my hand brushes something cold and metal.

It's a birdarang of mine. Sharp. Metal. Cool to the touch. The contrasting temperature is relief against my hot skin, and I clutch it close to my chest, still breathing heavily.

I don't allow myself to think for very long. If I think about it, I'll just find a reason not to do this;

I dig the sharp edge of the weapon into my wrist, and yank it back towards me. The blood appears instantly, and starts flowing much quicker than I had expected.

The pain is still nothing compared to what I'm feeling in my heart. However, if I bleed enough, eventually my heart will stop beating. And if my heart stops beating, it won't feel pain anymore.

I lean back against my bed and clutch at my upper forearm, instinctively trying to cut off the circulation to my wrist. I know it won't work; my hand won't work as a tourniquet, and the blood is just going to keep flowing.

If I turn out to regret this decision…it'll probably be too late and I won't even know that I'm regretting it.

Right now, dying is the only thing I can think of doing that I could even remotely enjoy.

* * *

Damian's POV

I'm sure I heard some suspicious noises coming from Drake's room. The loser is probably throwing some kind of temper-tantrum. Father said he sent Drake up to get Grayson and me, but Drake never returned. Now I am to fetch him.

There's light coming from underneath his bedroom door, so I know he must be in here. I open the door.

Drake is lying unconscious in a pool of his own blood, which seems to be pouring out of his left wrist.

There is a bloody birdarang on the floor a few inches away from his right hand; obviously after he cut himself with it he couldn't hold onto it anymore.

The blood on his wrist is beginning to dry and clot, but he's still lost enough of it to lose consciousness.

I stand there, torn between happiness and horror, for a good ten seconds before I realize what I'm looking at.

Drake has committed suicide.

This is not good.

"GRAYSON!" I scream. And I sound like a scared little girl as I do it; I'm surprised that I could sound so terrified.

"WHAT? What is it?" cries Grayson, running up the hallway. "AAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!"

"I found him like this," I say, my voice shaking. Why the hell is my voice quivering? That's not me. I don't _get_ emotional.

"Oh, my gosh!" Grayson sobs, scooping Drake up in his arms. _"Why, Timmy? Why?" _I back away towards the door. "Don't just stand there! Get Alfred! Get Bruce! Tell them to prepare the ER in the Cave!"

I sort-of stumble over my own feet, and next thing I know, I'm speeding down the hall and down into the Cave.

"Father! Pennyworth!" I cry. Again, I sound hysterical even though I don't really care. Why is my voice betraying me?

"What?" asked my father.

"Drake's tried to kill himself!" I scream, running towards him. He reaches out slowly and takes my hands in his, as if he knew exactly where I was going to reach even before I got to him.

"What?" he gasps.

"I found him in his room. He slit his wrist with a birdarang," I explain, Father still clutching my hands.

"HE NEEDS HELP! NOW!" screams Grayson, running into the cave with Drake in his arms. He has managed to stop the bleeding by taking off his t-shirt and tying it tightly around Drake's elbow. Pennyworth immediately takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves as Grayson lays Drake down on the medical table.

"Get the IV!" Pennyworth demands. Grayson acquires the drip to give Drake a transfusion while my father gets a packet of blood out of the cooler, and hooks it up.

"He's going to need about 3 pints, quick!" Dick declares, unwrapping the tourniquet that he hastily tied.

"Get me the first-aid kit," said Pennyworth.

I back away, knowing that I'll only be a hindrance if I try to observe. Pennyworth works diligently, disinfecting Drake's wrist and bandaging it up, while Grayson is a nervous wreck. He's collapsed to his knees at the foot of the medical table, my father hunched over and embracing him as he sobs.

"_Why would he do this?" _Grayson cries. _"What did I do? What did I do?"_

"Shh. It's alright, Dick. It's alright. Alfred will fix him right up. He's going to be OK," my father says calmly.

I reach up to wipe some sweat off of my forehead, and as I do, I realize that my arm is shaking. Why should I be shaking? This is not traumatic for me. I don't care if Drake dies.

* * *

It's been over an hour and Grayson shows no signs of regaining his dignity. Drake is still unconscious, receiving a blood transfusion, and Grayson is on his knees beside the bed, with his arms folded and his head in them, crying while holding Drake's other hand.

I've never seen Grayson such a mess before. He's been reduced to a helpless, sobbing heap of a man. Father and Pennyworth are sitting in chairs beside each other on the other side of the bed, neither of them crying, and neither speaking. The only sound in the cave is the beep of the heart monitor, and the loud, anguished cries of my mentor.

"_Why?" _he sobs, squeezing Drake's hand. _"Why, Timmy? Why would you do this? Why would you do this to me?"_

"What makes you think he had you in mind when he made this decision?" I ask.

"Damian," says Father. "Not now."

"I was merely asking why Grayson thinks that Drake's decision even included him," I say.

"Would you STOP CALLING HIM DRAKE?" screams Grayson. "For gosh's sake, he's your brother! Call him by his first name!" And he returns to his hysterical mourning.

"Father, I-"

"Damian, come here," says Father. I slowly approach him, and he grabs my arm, and almost violently pulls be into his grasp. Hugging me tightly, he guides me to sit on his lap, even though I don't want to.

"_Father, why must I be here?" _I whisper, so as not to anger Grayson.

"_Shh," _Father hushes me. He obviously thinks I'm as freaked out about this as they are, but I'm not. I could really take it or leave it. I understand that they will all be sad if Drake dies, but surely they know that I won't be. Why is Father, like, trying to comfort me?

After another 20 minutes or so, Grayson seems to have cried himself to sleep, and Drake has received all 3 pints of blood that were needed. Now all we have to do is wait for him to either die or wake up.

I can't really tell if Father is asleep, as he hasn't said anything since he last tried to calm me down, and he hasn't released me from his embrace on his lap either.

Pennyworth has finished cleaning up his medical supplies, and gotten out new, clean ones should he need them.

What are they expecting me to do? Are they waiting for me to start crying? 'cause that's not going to happen.

I listen for a minute and am able to hear a very soft buzzing sound, and I realize that it's Father, softly snoring, which means he's asleep.

I carefully extract myself from his arms, and slink out of the cave. Pennyworth doesn't seem to notice me sneak out.

Where am I going?

What am I going to do with this situation?

I can't seem to plan out my next move, but somehow I end up in Drake's room again.

The blood on the carpet has turned almost brown by now, and it's only now that I realize just how much of it he'd lost. Looking around the room, I notice that he had been throwing some kind of temper-tantrum as I'd suspected; shoes tossed across the room; books falling off the shelves; photos scattered around the room. Some in tact, some in pieces.

I walk over to the corner of the room where the torn-up pictures are. I crouch down and start picking them up, hoping that they will serve as clues as to why Drake decided to take his own life.

I can't really tell what's what yet, as they've been ripped several times. I sit down cross-legged on the floor and try to piece them together like a puzzle. I don't expect it to take less than all night long, but I have nothing better to do.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 02  
Please review, thanks.


	3. Redundant

**Learn To Love Chapter 03: Redundant**

Chikorita-Trainer1

M

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Dick's POV

My back hurts. _Ow_. What did I do last night?

I open my eyes and find that I'm kneeling at a bed in the Cave.

Bruce's cape is draped over my shoulders. He must've put it on me last night after I fell asleep. That was nice of him.

I brush a few strands of hair out of my face and feel that my cheeks are all grainy with salt. I must have cried so much last night.

I glance up at the reason for my sadness; Tim is lying unconscious on this bed, with an oxygen mask on and what looks like an entire roll of gauze bandaged around his left forearm. Now I remember; Tim had slit his own wrist last night, and was now barely alive.

I feel like I'm about to start crying again, but I'm too exhausted. I sense Alfred coming up behind me.

"Master Dick," he says quietly. "Perhaps you might stretch your legs and wash up a bit."

I comply, because I can feel how gross I must look. My hair all disheveled and matted; my eyes all clotted with dried tears and eye-snot.

"I guess I'll go shower," I say groggily.

After my hygiene ritual, I return to the cave, because I don't belong anywhere else. I can't leave Tim. He needs me. He probably needed me a lot more last night, but I wasn't there for him. But even if I had been, what could I have said to prevent this? "I love you" is not enough. I'm lost for words.

The thought of Tim being in so much pain that he tried to kill himself brings back that feeling of horror I felt last night, and against my own will I collapse to my knees at his side again.

"Please, Master Dick," says Alfred. "I recommend a chair." I sigh and get up, and sit in a chair he has dragged over to the bedside. I know he's right, I can't just sit on my knees all day.

"Thank you," I say softly.

I only get to stay here for about fifteen minutes before Bruce calls me up to have breakfast with him and Damian.

I slowly drag myself up the stairs and into the manor, sitting down at the table, refusing to meet either of their gazes.

Damian, of course, is fine. I don't look him in the eye, but I can glance at him; my prying eyes shielded by a few locks of my hair. He's calmly cutting up his waffles and eating them one piece at a time, while reading the news on his tablet, which is propped up before him.

Bruce is looking down at his breakfast as he slowly and quietly eats it too. Alfred places a plate of eggs, bacon and toast in front of me. It looks good, but I don't feel like eating.

"No thanks, Alfred. I'm not hungry," I say. I know it's rude to turn down food that someone has worked hard to make for you, but I think I have a damn good excuse for not being hungry.

"Dick, you should eat something," says Bruce.

"I just don't have much of an appetite," I sigh.

"Eat anyway. You're no good to anyone if you starve yourself," says Damian. I want to punch him in the face, but I don't have the strength to do so.

"Damian," Bruce says sternly. The child shrugs and goes back to his meal.

I don't know what it is about traumatic situations that ruin one's appetite. Seeing Tim all bloody and bandaged didn't make me sick to my stomach, I didn't feel nauseous, but I'm not hungry either.

"Did anything change last night while I was asleep?" I ask.

"No," says Bruce. I wasn't expecting any other answer from him, but I had to ask just to make conversation.

"How are you feeling?" he asks. I give him an incredulous look, feeling the corners of my mouth sag lower than the Joker's sense of morality.

"Freaked out," I say. Bruce nods slowly and looks down.

"Me, too."

* * *

Tim's POV Dream Sequence

_Dick and I are walking towards the beach, Gotham City behind us, on a clear, warm day. It's a little hard to breathe, but we're not walking very fast, so I can deal. I'm carrying a bunch of newspapers in my hands and am shredding them as we walk._

"_Why are you ripping them up?" asks Dick. _

"_They're easier to recycle if you tear them up. It also makes it easier to stuff them into a garbage bag," I answer. Somehow this makes sense even though I've never even given the subject a nanosecond of thought._

"_Why do you have to rip them into such long strips?" Dick says. _

"_You have to make sure only about five words from each line are left in each strip," I say. That makes no sense, and I don't even know how I would ever come to these random conclusions, but I just keep saying things to answer Dick's questions. _

"_Are you going to stay like this forever?" Dick asks me._

"_Maybe. I don't know," I answer. I don't even know what he's talking about, and yet I know the answer._

"_I just wish I could turn back time one day," he says wistfully. "Then I could stop you."_

"_I know," I admit. _

"_Why don't you get some rest?" he asks. _

"_I'm fine," I say. "I'm not tired at all."_

"_Let's lie down," Dick says, sitting on the sand and lying on his back. I quickly do the same._

"_I can't see," I say shakily._

"_Open your eyes," Dick says._

"_They ARE open! I can't see anything!" My world is black. There's nothing but darkness, yet I know that my eyes are open, because I can feel myself blinking as I say this. _

"_Open your eyes! Please!" _

"_I can't! I'm trying!" I cry. Now it's getting hard to breathe. I think I'm suffocating. "Dick! I can't breathe! Help me!"_

"_OPEN YOUR EYES! PLEASE, TIMMY!"_

"_I CAN'T!" I start to cough._

_(end of dream sequence)_

I reach up and pull the oxygen mask off my face and gasp for breath. My eyes seem to be stuck shut, but I finally do manage to get them open. They were crusted with dried tears and other eye-gunk that kind-of welded the lashes together. But they're open now and I can see.

"Timmy! You're awake!" cries Dick. I turn my head to the side and see his tear-streaked face smiling at me.

_"You were in my dream,"_ I say groggily._ "I was dreaming that we were, like, on the beach and you were…like…"_ I trail off, as I've forgotten most of the dream already.

"Tim, thank goodness," says Bruce. I turn my head to the left and see him there.

"Timmy, why did you do this?" Dick asks.

_"What?"_ I ask. Then I remember, but before I can answer, Dick tells me anyway.

"Slit your wrist? Why would you try to kill yourself?" he sobs, running one hand through my hair and kissing my hand which he holds in the other.

I exhale tiredly. _"I don't know…"_ And I really don't remember. _"How did I…? What…?"_ I'm too weak to talk; I feel like I'm going to pass out at any moment.

"Damian found you in your room, lying in a pool of blood," says Bruce. Ah, Damian. Now I remember. I was angry at him or something.

"Why would you do this? How could you do this to me, little brother?" Dick whispers. Suddenly, I feel like my heart's being crushed. I turn to look at him with my eyebrows lowered in anger.

_"How could I do this? How could I do THIS to YOU?"_ I struggle to say. I want to sound angry but I don't have enough strength, so I just sound like a dying person.

"What?" Dick asks.

_"You're the one…"_ I say, my chest heaving as I fight back tears. _"…YOU'RE the one…who…"_ My breathing becomes more labored and I can't finish my sentence. I just keep taking bigger and bigger breaths.

"Give him the oxygen," Bruce says, putting the oxygen mask back over my face. "Shh. Shh, it's OK, Tim. Deep breaths. It's OK."

I inhale deeply from the mask, and the oxygen smells all sterile and nasty, but I know it's what's probably best for me at the moment. Dick keeps petting my hair.

"Timmy, please stay with me. Please," he begs. I'm sure he just means stay awake, because I feel like I'm about to pass out again. I close my eyes and keep breathing deeply. I guess it's not my time to wake up yet. I guess I have to rest some more.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 03  
Please review, thanks.


	4. Jinx

**Learn To Love Chapter 04: Jinx**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Bruce's POV

It's early evening, but none of us are going on patrol. My second son is unconscious yet again. My first son is heartbroken and confused. My third son is missing.

"Where's Damian?" I ask. Dick shrugs.

"I last saw Master Damian heading upstairs," says Alfred. "I assume he has gone up to either his room or perhaps Master Tim's."

"Dick, why don't you go lie down in your own bed? Tim will be OK without you for one night," I suggest. Dick shakes his head.

"I'm not leaving him, Bruce. Abandoning him is probably what landed him here in the first place."

I sigh and get up and begin my search for Damian. I soon find the child in Tim's room, working diligently over something on Tim's desk.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my tone one of curiosity and not of accusation.

"Trying to finish putting together these photos," Damian answers. "Drake probably tore them up right before he slit his wrist. So far what I can tell is that he was pissed at Grayson."

"How can you tell?" I ask. I'm proud that my son is getting so good at detective work.

"Because every one of these pictures was ripped right down the center of Grayson's face. And only pictures with Grayson were destroyed. Every other picture was spared."

"Tim just woke up, and started to say something to Dick. Something angry. But then he passed out again," I explain.

"I'm not surprised," says Damian. "Grayson will probably want to know. Why don't you tell him?"

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," I say. "I mean, normally I would. I don't like keeping something like this from Dick."

"So what's the problem? Why wouldn't you tell him?"

"Because if he finds out that he was the cause of Tim's pain, he might very well break down. I don't need two sons contemplating suicide," I say.

"He's not going to attempt suicide just because he drove Drake to it," Damian says. "Grayson isn't that kind of person."

"And what kind of person is that?" I ask, folding my arms.

"You know…" Damian says. "…crazy?" I frown at my son and force him to look up at me.

"Being suicidal does not make one "crazy,"" I say sternly. "And you would do well to show some respect for your brothers." My son just scoffs and looks away. "Don't you love _anything_?"

"Father…" Damian begins.

"No, I want to know. Do you have any compassion, any sympathy at all, for anyone or anything?"

"I don't know, OK?" Damian says. "If_ you_ were to die, I'd be sad. I mean, hell, I thought you _were_ dead for a year, there."

"And if it weren't for Tim, I might still be gone. Did you ever think of that?" I ask. I feel strange talking to him like this; he may be my son, but I haven't known him all that long, so scolding him and trying to set him straight still seem weird to me. I almost feel like someone else is going to pop in and say "Hey, why don't you stick to raising your OWN children? I'll stick to raising mine!" But he _is_ my child and I have every right to talk to him like this.

"Whatever," is all I get from him. He waits a few seconds and then speaks again. "I would be sad if Grayson or Pennyworth were to die. But that's about it."

"Why do you not value Tim's life? What did he ever do to you that made you hate him so much?" I ask.

"He's the one who hates me!" Damian complains. "He doesn't trust me. He's jealous that I'm Robin now, and he thinks of me as a common criminal! Did you know he put me on his Hit List of criminals to apprehend? He's the one with the problem, Father, not me."

I sigh, knowing that Damian is completely wrong. I know that Tim does not distrust him for no reason. The first time they met, Tim was very friendly to Damian, but my son was a jerk and beat him up.

"How would you like Tim to treat you, Damian?" I ask, throwing him a curveball.

"What?"

"You claim that Tim hates you and doesn't trust you. How would you like him to treat you?"

"I don't know…" my son answers. "Like…" he trails off. "I don't know."

"Alright, so you think Tim treats you unfairly, but you don't have any preferences as to how he should treat you?" I suggest. "Damian, Tim has worked very hard to be a part of this family. He wasn't born into it, he earned it, through training, education, maturity and of course, morality. He had every right to be Robin. You on the other hand, were just dumped off here by your mother, and thought you could just assume the role of Robin. Now, since then you've worked hard, too. You've trained and learned, and you're doing a good job. But why do you still think that you're better than Tim?"

"What do you want me to say, Father?" Damian grumbles. "That Drake is perfect and I'm wrong about everything?"

"_Well, that's a good start," _I mumble. "But no. All I want is for you not to be so stubborn and angry, and just consider _why_ you hate him so much. And if it's not within reason, I want you to stop. OK?"

Damian just blinks and looks at me. "How do I know if I care about someone?" he asks. I want to just smack him in the head right now, but that would only create more problems.

"Your mother really did a number on you, son," I say. "You really have no sense of love or compassion?"

"Yes, that's already been established, Father!" he snaps at me. "How do I know if I care about someone, or if I just acknowledge that they have a right to live? What's the difference? We save innocent lives when we go on patrol, but we don't LOVE those people; they're total strangers. We know we have to protect them, but we have no obligation to care about them beyond that."

"_Oh, my gosh…" _I sigh, leaning down and resting my head in my hand. "Damian, that's not something you can teach. You're just born with it. You just KNOW!" That's no answer, so I try to think of a way to explain it to him. The only way I can think of is to describe it to him scientifically.

"Damian," I say, turning to look at him. "When my parents were killed, I felt like my whole world had been taken away from me. Everything I knew was gone in an instant. And I felt like my heart had been ripped from my chest, and I was walking around with a big, gaping hole in my body. The adrenal gland is right above your kidneys, but when you get an adrenaline rush, you feel it in your chest. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Of course. I have extensive knowledge of the human circulatory and nervous systems," Damian answered.

"OK, good. So you know the feeling I'm talking about? That tight, tense feeling in your chest when something scares you?" My son nods. "Well, when you're really sad about something, you get a similar feeling. Right?" Another nod.

"Now, when something makes you horribly sad and depressed, you get this kind of sinking feeling in your chest, like there's an anvil tied to your heart. That's why people say they're heartbroken. So when something bad happens to someone else, you feel the same way. But _for them. _You understand?"

"Not really," he says. My jaw drops.

"You've never felt that way about another person?" I exclaim.

"Father, this isn't helping!" he whines and walks back towards the desk. "I can't force myself to feel something! All I know is that if Drake were to die, I wouldn't care!"

"Fine," I say. "I give up. If you're truly that heartless, then you're beyond even my help. Anyway, don't tell Dick about what you've found until he's a little less emotional. If you tell him, well, it's HIS adrenal gland we'll have to worry about!" And I stomp out of the room.

* * *

Damian's POV

You give up? I'm heartless? I'm beyond help? Well fuck you, Father! I am merely the product of genetic engineering and rigorous assassins' training. I was never taught compassion. Sue me. You say I was supposed to have been born with it? Well, I was never technically born, was I? I didn't even develop in a uterus. Maybe when you're a fetus in a glass ball with tubes and wires sticking into it, you don't come out with all these innate emotions that you and Grayson and Pennyworth find so damn important!

I hate my life. Everyone's against me. All I do is bust my ass following rules and controlling myself myself. Everyone wants me to suppress my feelings, and now they're telling me I don't have ENOUGH feelings. Why am I always the one who has to try and understand Drake? It's not like he ever makes an effort to understand me.

I may not experience sadness for others very often, but I DO know when I'm angry; like right now. My chest is tight and it feels a little painful to breathe. I clench my teeth and ball my hands into fists. I want to punch something…or someone…but there's nothing here with a face.

What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to just HAVE these feelings? I can't just BECOME sad just because someone tells me I should. But I do need to get this pent-up aggression out somehow.

I can't change into my Robin costume because it's in the Cave, and if I go down there I'll just encounter Grayson or Father, and they won't let me go anywhere.

I sit down on Drake's bed and sigh to myself for a second. What can I do with my time? What do I need to get done? I've already determined the cause of Drake's meltdown; it's Grayson. I don't know what he did to Drake, but it obviously pissed him off enough to make him attempt suicide.

What could he have possibly been feeling that made him that miserable?

What is it like to feel so unhappy that you don't want to live anymore?

I lie down on the bed, hoping that changing positions might help my thought process. I try to remember times in my own life when I've been unhappy. I get angry often enough to know how exhausting that can be, but have I ever really been truly sad?

I close my eyes and try to think as far back as my memory will allow. I think I can go as far back as…maybe…five years old? All I did back then was train and study. And whatever I wanted I was given within like two minutes of asking for it. My mother had servants at my beckon call to bring me anything from a glass of water to a polished new sword.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

Maybe they're right about me. Maybe I am just some rotten spoiled brat. I fucked up again. It's all my fault.

Father hates me, doesn't he?

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 04  
Please review, thanks.


	5. Brain Stew

**Learn To Love Chapter 05: Brain Stew**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Dick's POV

Alfred has offered me dinner, but I'm still not hungry. I just feel so weighed down, like there's a two-ton boulder lying on my shoulders. It's so frustrating when emotional pain causes physical symptoms.

This is one of the hardest things I think we've ever had to go through as a family. Sure, there have been near-death experiences, times when we thought one of us was dead, but I never thought my little Timmy would try to commit suicide. Usually when he has a problem, he tries his hardest to solve it, not give up.

I want to spend the night by Tim's side, but Bruce and Alfred both insist I sleep in a bed tonight. I don't have the strength to argue, so I drag myself up to my old room and slink under the covers.

This bed is soft and warm, but it does nothing to comfort me. I may as well be sleeping in a bus station. If only Tim could be here with me, all snuggled up against me, warm and safe, and _alive, and with me._ Just the thought of him being so sad that he tried to kill himself makes my chest tighten and my eyes water.

"_Timmy…"_ I sob faintly. I take a pillow and clutch it to my chest, pretending it's Tim, and that he's here so I can comfort him.

I half-expect myself to have nightmares from this situation, but I can't even fall asleep. My head aches from crying and my whole body is fatigued from stress. My mouth is dry. My face is numb. I wish Bruce would come in here, lie down next to me, hold me and tell me everything is going to be alright. But Bruce would never do that. That's not his style. Am I selfish for wishing it were? Am I being selfish just for thinking about what would make_ me_ feel better as opposed to Tim?

Why can't things just be easy and simple? Why does life have to be so horrible and frightening all the time?

Timmy, why can't you just talk to me? Why did you do this to yourself? To all of us? _To me?_

I keep crying, loudly now, hoping that Bruce will hear it and come check on me. Is that selfish of me? I want to be comforted even though I can't possibly be in as much pain as Tim.

What's wrong with me?

Why is this happening?

Somebody help me.

OK, Dick, think: what could possibly have pushed Tim over the edge like this? Where there any telltale signs last night? He seemed to keep to himself, he didn't join in playing with Titus. Probably because he's Damian's dog.

I don't want to go there, but it probably _was_ something Damian-related. Maybe he threatened Tim or said something really horrible to him.

No, that's impossible. Damian and Tim were never alone together last night. For the whole night, Damian was either with me, or with both of us. When could he and Tim have possibly interacted in private?

I sigh.

It doesn't add up. I left Tim downstairs with Bruce when I followed Damian upstairs.

Could it have something to do with that? That I went after Damian? But why the hell would Tim try to kill himself over THAT? That doesn't make any sense!

DAMN IT! This isn't fair! I need answers, and Tim is the only person who can provide them. I hate this. I hate it when Tim is in trouble. I hate it even more when I can't help him. I'm his big brother, I should always be there for him. Why didn't he just tell me what was wrong? Why did he do this?

* * *

Damian's POV

It's late. I decide to go see Grayson, just to check up on him, see if he's able to function like a normal human being again.

Before I open his bedroom door, I remind myself to call him Dick. After he yelled at me for not calling Drake by his first name, I was a little shocked; I didn't know I was offending him so much by being formal.

"Dick?" I ask softly.

"Yeah?" he sniffs. The room is dark, but there's a little light coming in from the window, and I can see the basic silhouette of his form.

"Are you OK?"

"Not really," he moans, rolling over so I can climb into bed with him. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened."

I stifle myself from challenging that opinion, since WAY worse things have happened to this family. He doesn't need to hear that now, though.

"Why do you think he did it?" I ask. Just curious to see if he can remember doing or saying anything that might have triggered it.

_"I have no idea,"_ he whispers. _"I can't sleep. I can't think. I just keep picturing Tim, suffering, crying, and then slitting his wrist. I'd do anything I could to go back in time and stop him."_

"If Tim wakes up," I say, mindful to use his first name. "and tells you why he did it, what would you say to him?"

Dick doesn't say anything for a moment. I can't see his face, but I know he must be pondering his answer.

"Well," he begins. "I'd just…" he trails off, obviously running hypothetical scenarios through his grief-muddled mind. "If it was something I did, I would just…" he pauses again and takes a shuddering breath. _"I would just…hold him…tell him how sorry I am…I would just remind him that…"_

This time he trails off and doesn't speak again for about ten seconds.

_"I would just tell him how much I need him. How much I love him. And just…probably beg him never to do something like this ever again."_

I'm not sure if I should tell him what I found in Drake's room yet. He's exhausted from crying and emotionally demolished from the whole situation. So I offer to lift his self-imposed guilt for a second.

"What if it was something I did?" I ask. Maybe if he considers the possibility, he'll feel a little better.

"I don't know," he groans. "I would be mad as hell at you," he says. "I'd probably want to punish you."

"Fair enough," I say.

_"I don't know what I would do,"_ he sighs. _"I just want Timmy to get better."_

"I do, too," I say, surprising even myself. I just don't like seeing Grayson like this. His depression is contagious; starting to bring _me _down.

"Well, try to get some sleep, Grayson," I say, forgetting about the whole first-name thing.

"You too," he sniffs. As I exit his room, I hear him sobbing into the pillow.

It's getting a little hard to breathe.

What's that all about?

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 05  
Please review, thanks.


	6. Pulling Teeth

**Learn To Love Chapter 06: Pulling Teeth**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Dick's POV

Damn sun. It's fucking six o'clock in the morning. I knew I should have closed the curtains last night. Oh well. Now I guess I'm up.

I don't want to face another day of this. At first I think, what if Tim is awake today? But then I just think to myself, no, if he were awake, someone would have already come in here and told me.

Well, until that actually happens, I'm staying in bed. No point in getting up if Tim isn't awake either.

Of course, I _can't_ go back to sleep with the sun creeping in the window, since that's what woke me up in the first place. Great. So, I can't get out of bed for lack of motivation, and I can't go back to sleep because of the sunlight. Perfect.

So I have to be miserable on all accounts, eh? I have to be emotionally miserable, as well as physically uncomfortable and sleep-deprived? I don't even know if I managed to get any sleep last night. I must have, since I remember it being dark in here last night, and now all of a sudden it's light. Logic dictates that I must have fallen asleep for at least a couple hours.

I can hear someone approaching my room. Judging from the creaking of the floorboards, I'd have to say Bruce. Alfred has a more rhythmic stride and Damian doesn't weigh enough to make the floorboards creak.

"Dick? Are you awake?" Bruce asks. I roll over onto my back and give him a quick wave; more of an upward thrust of my arm, like a fiddler crab.

"I'm not getting up," I mumble.

"Oh, Dick," he sighs, walking over to my bed and leaning over me. "You have to. Tim needs you, remember?"

"_Nobody needs me," _I mutter bitterly.

"Of course they do," he insists. "Now come on. You can't just mope in bed all day. That's not going to help anyone. I'll see you in the dining room in ten minutes."

I mentally weigh arguing with Bruce and staying in bed against getting up and trudging downstairs. I choose to get up.

I arrive in the dining room to Bruce eating breakfast and drinking coffee. Coffee might be good right about now, so I ask Alfred to pour me some.

"Hi," says Bruce when I sit down beside him at the table, sipping from my mug.

"_Mm-hmm," _I respond.

"Master Dick, shall I prepare your breakfast?" Alfred asks. I shake my head.

"Dick, you have to eat something," says Bruce.

"No," I state firmly.

"At least have some toast…" Bruce insists.

"NO!" I growl. "I'm not hungry!" Bruce backs off and Alfred shrinks back into the kitchen. "Where's Damian?" I ask, eager to change the subject.

"Not sure," says Bruce. "Probably in his room."

" 'K. I'll go look for him," I sigh. I get up, coffee mug in hand, and go upstairs. "Damian?" I call. "Titus?" No answer. Doesn't matter. I know where the kid's room is, so I head there.

Unfortunately there's no one in here. Just his weird-ass looking bed and his writing desk. I set my mug down on the mantle over the fireplace and take a closer look at what's on top of his desk; a thick book. Looks like a sketchbook. I pick it up and open it to the middle.

The drawings are pretty good for a ten-year-old. They're mostly violent pictures of various criminals being slaughtered. Nothing new for Damian. Hey, maybe there'll be some clues about Tim in here. Maybe Damian knows something and he expressed it in a drawing.

I quickly flip through the rest of the pages; nothing Tim-related, except a few pictures of Damian holding his severed head. That's not a clue, that's Damian's mission in life; to decapitate Tim. _Such a bastard. _I just know the brat had something to do with this. Damian must have driven Tim to it.

Feeling the corners of my mouth start to sag, I drop the sketchbook down on the desk and quickly sit down in the chair. Resting my elbows on the desk, I lay my head in my hands and sob quietly.

After about five minutes, I gather my wits about me and go back downstairs. Alfred has gone back down to the Cave to monitor Tim. Bruce and I follow shortly after.

* * *

Tim's POV

I'm awake. My eyes are open. I can't tell if there's anyone else in the room with me, but just in case there is, I'm going to keep quiet. I'm really not in the mood for confrontation right now.

I can barely remember how I got here; must be all the painkillers. I don't think I broke any limbs, 'cause everything feels fine. I've got an IV stuck in my left arm, which is normal. Accidents will happen, but this time I can't get up.

I try to move my right arm a little, and I am successful. I'd better not move it too much, or someone might see me and know I'm awake and try to talk to me.

I slowly glide my arm across my body and feel my left arm. It's wrapped in gauze from my elbow down. OK, obviously I hurt my wrist. But how bad could it have been if I'm in a hospital bed, for crying out loud?

I close my eyes and try to remember what happened, but nothing is coming up. Damn it. My only chance to find out is to ask someone.

I turn my head to the side and scan the Cave for anyone. I see Alfred tidying up, so I call him over.

"_Alfred?" _Man, my voice sounds groggy as hell. How long have I been out?

"Master Timothy!" he cries happily as he rushes to my side. "Thank goodness you're awake."

"_What happened?" _I ask.

"No one knows for certain but you, I'm afraid," says Alfred. Well, that sure helps me out.

"_In that case, what do _you _know?" _I ask. I end up sounding more snarky than I meant to, but I'm really annoyed right now.

"Master Damian discovered you in your room the other night, unconscious, lying in a pool of your own blood." My eyes widen when I hear this, and I immediately jump to a conclusion.

"Did he try to murder me?!"

"On the contrary, Master Tim," says Alfred. "It is the collective theory of this family that you tried to take your own life."

My eyebrows crease in horror above my wide-open eyes when I hear this. That can't be true. I would never try to commit suicide.

"No way," I shudder.

"I'm afraid so, lad. Master Damian found you with a bloody Birdarang in close proximity to your right hand. And your left wrist was slashed open," Alfred explains.

This is all too much for me to comprehend. My head swirls with a million thoughts at once and I roll my head back so I'm staring up at the ceiling again. I can feel myself break into a cold sweat and my heart start to pound in my chest.

"_Wh…wha…" _I mutter deliriously. I don't even know what I was trying to say just then, I'm totally confused.

"I shall inform Master Bruce that you're awake again," says Alfred. I barely even notice it, I'm just drowning in my own confusion.

Within a few minutes, Bruce and Dick appear at my bedside, smiling, but also looking terrified.

"Timmy, you're awake," sighs Dick, reaching out to stroke my hair. _"You poor thing," _he adds softly, tears in his eyes.

"Can someone please tell me what the hell happened?" I ask.

"Why did you do it?" cries Dick, getting down to eye-level with me and clutching my right hand.

"Do what? Try to kill myself?" Dick nods. "I don't know. I don't remember."

"Was it something I did?" he pleads.

"I don't know!" I say, frustrated. "I don't even remember doing it. Maybe Damian did it and just tried to make it look like suicide." I know that's pretty farfetched, but once I say it, I can see that Dick is actually considering it. Wouldn't put anything past Damian.

"I don't believe it," says Bruce. "Your fingerprints were the only ones on that Birdarang."

"Well, look, I'm sorry I put you through all this," I say. "But I honestly can't remember anything from last night, or two nights ago, or whenever I did this."

"Damian found you like this two nights ago," says Bruce. I glance at Dick again, and can see the sadness in his eyes. I squeeze his hand to try to make him feel better, and he squeezes back.

"Um, can I get up?" I ask. "I can't really feel my arm, but other than that I feel OK."

"Out of the question, Master Timothy," says Alfred, pressing the button to make the bed sit up. "I can allow you to eat and drink, but I insist you stay in bed for the next 24 hours."

"Fine," I grumble. I really don't like being this vulnerable; everyone surrounding me and looking down at me. I don't like it at all.

"Can I get you anything?" asks Dick. "You want a book, or a snack or something?"

"No, that's OK," I say. I almost wish I did want something, just so he could make himself useful. "I just want to know how I got here." And by here, I meant this emotional state. I know how I got HERE in the bed, I just don't know what led me to attempt suicide.

"We all do, Tim," says Bruce. But even though I'm not quite up to snuff, I get the feeling that there's something he's not telling me.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 06  
Please review, thanks.


	7. Chump

**Learn To Love Chapter 07: Chump**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Damian's POV

I enter Grayson's room without knocking. He's sitting on his bed, looking pathetic, as is common for him lately.

"Grayson?" I say softly, and then immediately remembering that he'd rather I call people by their first names.

"Yeah?" he says. He seems to have slightly more feeling in his words, which is good, because last night, he sounded weak as hell. "What's up, D?" I smile inwardly at his use of my nickname. I can tell he's in a better mood.

"Feeling better?" I say. He shrugs.

"Eh, better than I did last night. Still not a hundred percent, though," he answers. "How about you?"

I look down and sigh, trying not to laugh condescendingly, because I have not been affected by this at all, and surely he knows that. I wasn't the one crying my eyes out and refusing to eat. I silently tell myself to remind him to eat something soon, before he withers and dies.

"I'm fine. You know me," I say, keeping as much attitude out of my voice as possible.

"Did you want something?" he asks. Now I feel my heart tense up. How did he _do_ that? How did he KNOW I came in here to ask him something?

"Uh, well," I stutter. "I'm not familiar with…" I trail off, searching my mind for a more articulate way to tell him that I want to talk about Drake. "…I mean, I know how Drake became Robin, but…" Oh crap, now he's smiling at me. What, does he think this is going to be some corny, "family moment" between the two of us? I just need some information, Grayson! This isn't going to be a brotherly heart-to-heart.

"Come here," he says. Not in a soft, affectionate way, just more of a suggestion. I roll my eyes and sit on his bed, crossing my legs and facing him.

"OK, um, I guess what I wanted to ask is…how did you and Drake get so close?"

"Well," he chuckles. "He was like a little nerdy fan-boy when Bruce and I first met him. He had been stalking me, taking pictures, and he'd already found out on his own that I was Nightwing and that Bruce was Batman. At first I didn't trust him, but then he told me about his first trip to the circus."

I listen closely for key information, but I can't help being enticed by the warm, nostalgic tone in his voice.

"Turned out, he was, like, my biggest fan. He'd spent his whole childhood reading every article he could about Batman and Robin. And once he knew I had become Nightwing, he clipped every article about that, too. And he was just so innocent and smart at that age. He was only thirteen, but he was smart as hell." Thirteen, huh? I know that Drake is seventeen now, so this was four years ago. "He _was_ a little annoying, especially when he kept telling me to become Robin again. And then when he just decided to be Robin himself, I was, I admit, a _little_ ticked off. Like he thought just anyone could do it. But now I know he only did it because he cared so much about me and Bruce."

Grayson seems to have no trouble at all recalling these events that happened no more than four years ago. I can't really comprehend how someone could do that. Four years seems like forever ago to me.

"So for the next year or so, Bruce and I trained him and taught him stuff. He was already a pretty good detective, but working with your dad really helped hone his skills."

I sigh, exasperated. I already KNOW all this stuff. I asked Grayson how he and Drake got SO CLOSE, but he's not telling me! Oh well. I guess I have to be patient. Talking about all this is making Grayson feel better, so I let him continue.

"And he…" Grayson trails off, and looks up as he leans back on his pillows a bit. "He really, really looked up to me. And I loved that. I never wanted to disappoint him. He held me up so high…" I can see my brother's eyes start to glaze over with tears, but I say nothing. "And even though I knew he was capable of taking care of himself, I just felt instinctively protective of him."

There we go. THAT'S what I want to hear. Why he cares about Drake so much when he doesn't have to.

"I guess, partly because, at the time, he was still somebody else's child. If he got hurt or died because of me, I'd have to go and tell his real parents. Maybe I just felt some extra responsibility." Grayson still won't look me in the eye; he's still gazing upward.

"And he _let_ me," he continues. "He _let_ me protect him. He never told me to back off, or was all like "I can take care of myself!" He let me protect him. And I loved that. I wish he still _would_ let me protect him…"

OK, here we go. That one pushed Grayson over the line, and now he's crying again. Fucking retard.

Though, I can't help but think how much I _don't_ want to be coddled. How much I DO want to be trusted to take care of myself. I didn't think that being protective of his younger brothers meant so much to Dick.

"I used to love it when he'd confide in me. When he would come to me with his problems. When he was feeling suicidal, he would _call me_. And I would talk him out of it. It meant so much to me that he trusted me. I guess now he doesn't."

I think I'm starting to get that sinking feeling in my heart that Father was talking about. All of a sudden I feel like there's something pulling me downward, causing me to hunch over.

"Have you told him that?" I ask.

"Told him what?"

"That you liked it when he would come to you?" Grayson looks at me, and then slowly shifts his eyes to the side, and sighs.

"I guess I always just thought he knew," he admits.

"Well, maybe if you had told him, he wouldn't have tried to kill himself," I say. It's cruel, I know, but I'm trying to get Grayson to consider that maybe it was something he did…or didn't do…that led Drake to do this.

I would like to tell him that Drake had torn up all the pictures of him, but Father said not to until Grayson is a little less emotional.

_"Maybe so,"_ sobs Grayson. Great, now I've made him feel even worse. Now I feel bad. Damn it. I've really got to work more at this whole being-nice-to-people thing.

"If it was something you did," I say, getting up off the bed. "I suggest you stop feeling sorry for yourself and try to think of a way to rectify it." That sounds more like me. That's definitely mean enough for me to leave on.

So I do.

However, I still have that stupid tense feeling in my chest.

This is getting pretty damn frustrating. I'm feeling confused, aggravated, and weirdest of all, kinda guilty.

If Drake dies, wouldn't that make life better for me? Father, Grayson and Pennyworth would all get over it, eventually, and then I'd be next in line for the Cowl. Drake has been standing in my way ever since I got here.

Maybe it's just jealousy, mixing up with a violent mind. A circumstance that doesn't make much sense.

…or maybe I'm just dumb.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 07  
Please review, thanks.


	8. Minority

**Learn To Love Chapter 08: Minority**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Bruce's POV

"Father, can we go out on patrol tonight?" my son asks. I'm surprised he's waited this long to even bring it up. It's been about three nights since Tim attempted suicide and since then we haven't left home.

"Yes," I answer. I glance at Damian from out of the corner of my eye, and see that he's already suited up. Clearly, if I had said no, he would have gone out on his own anyway.

We get into the Batmobile and head out. Gordon hasn't shone the Bat-signal yet, so I assume that it's going to be a relatively quiet night, which is good, considering all I have on my plate at the moment.

"How's Dick been?" I ask, just to break the silence.

"Still crying like a schoolgirl," says Damian. I sigh loudly, with a growl in my throat. "What? You asked!"

"I know," I say, trying not to snap at my son. "It just bothers me how little respect you have for him, and Tim, and everyone else."

"Why should I respect Grayson when he's at his lowest?" Damian questions. "What use is he in his current state?"

"The most I can hope for is that his emotional nature will rub off on you, Robin," I say. "Have you thought about what I said?"

"About sympathy and love and all that other crap?" my son answers with a sarcastic sting in his tone. "Yes. The concepts have been occupying my thoughts, if you must know."

"And are you making any effort at all to understand them?" I challenge. We've been driving around for about fifteen minutes without so much as a mugging taking place.

"_About as much effort as you make to truly rid Gotham of evil," _I hear him mutter.

"Excuse me?!" I spout, turning my head to look at him. "Are you implying that I don't try hard?"

"No, I was merely implying that if you really _wanted_ to eliminate crime, you'd do more than tie people up and leave them in front of Gordon's office at the end of the night." I know he's suggesting that I kill, which of course, I won't do. I also know that he's trying to change the subject in an attempt to divert my attention away from him.

"So in other words, you _aren't_ making an effort to understand what I said," I assess. My son says nothing. Good. That means I win.

* * *

Damian's POV

I don't know what to say to Father, but I'd better think of something quick, or he wins.

…

…

FUCK! I can't think of a comeback. And it's been well over ten seconds so it's too late now, anyway. I hate it when I can't respond. The best thing I can hope for now is for a crime to take place, to take the heat off of me.

I get my wish.

The Bat-signal suddenly lights up the night sky above us, and my father speeds off to meet Gordon on the rooftop.

"What seems to be the problem?" Batman asks. I can't help but get shivers when I hear that gruff, guttural voice of his.

I step back and let Gordon explain things to my father. Gordon doesn't really like me; like everyone else, he thinks I'm a rude, irreverent child. Come to think of it, so does my father. And with Drake, that makes three.

I don't want to admit it, but maybe they have a point. If only one person out of everyone I'd ever met had a problem with me, I wouldn't care. But three? I guess it's _possible_ that I am at fault.

I try to think some more about feeling sad, and not just sad, but so miserable that you don't want to go on. It's still beyond me, and the only reason I can think of for it is that I'm only ten. So little of my life has been lived that maybe my very mind just isn't developed enough to conceive such a feeling.

I really hate being so young, sometimes. As knowledgeable as I am, I know I'm just a kid. That's why I hate it when people treat me like one. It's like, I already KNOW how old I am, you don't have to keep reminding me.

Frustration and anger, those are the only two emotions I can say I'm familiar with. Sadness is still foreign to me. I remember how I felt when my mother disowned me. I was…disappointed I guess would be the word. I expected her to see my intentions and admire my choice to be Robin, and follow in the footsteps of my father. I thought that's what she'd always wanted of me. But I was wrong. Sad? Yeah, a little, I guess. But it sure as hell didn't make me want to kill myself.

"Robin? …ROBIN!" I hear Batman call, and quickly turn to face him.

"Uh, sorry. I was just-"

"I know what you were doing. You were spacing out. I need you here and paying attention, now!" he orders. I gulp and scuttle over to my father's side.

"If you can distract them for even five minutes, my men can get in there and surround the place," Gordon is saying.

"We'll get right on that," Batman growls. "Come, Robin." We fire our tethers and swing off the rooftop.

"So what are we doing?" I ask. "I didn't catch all of that."

"You should have been listening," Batman chides me. "If you can't do a simple thing like that, you'll never be able to protect Gotham."

I'm not touching that one. My father is in a mood, and trying to explain myself will only make it worse. All I can do now to make up for my mistake is to follow his orders as best I can.

We swing over a few blocks into the parking lot of a closed high school. Its windows are boarded up and there's graffiti all over the outside of it. And in the parking lot are several cars and what appear to be two rival gangs at a stand-off, one waiting to shoot the other first.

Batman lands on the roof of the school, me by his side. I don't understand why he stopped. Aren't we supposed to go down there and kick some ass?

"_Why are we waiting-?"_

"_Shh!" _hisses Batman. _"We can't go in there and attack without knowing what we're getting into." _I hold my breath for a second, wishing I hadn't made another obvious mistake (like questioning my father's intentions). I just keep thinking about Drake and how he must have felt that night.

"_Robin," _he whispers. That time I did hear him, and I'm right here, waiting to be instructed.

"_Yes?" _

"_See those four in the car? They're probably going to fire the minute the opposing gang leader makes a move. I need you to get in there, disable their guns, and get out. On my signal, OK?"_

"_Roger," _I say. That's a nice, professional response, don't you think?

"Now!"

I leap down and land right in the back seat of the gang's convertible, causing them all to shriek in surprise.

"THE FUCK?!" one of them screams as I kick his rifle out of his arms and onto the asphalt.

"IT'S BATMAN'S BOYFRIEND!" cries another, squirming back to get a good aim. I quickly grab his gun and turn it upwards to break his nose.

"OH SHIT!" scream the other two. I make quick work of them as well. I can fight four guys at once, without a doubt, singled out, the only way I know.

The one whose nose I broke pulls out a blade. "You messed with the wrong thug, bird-boy!" he sneers. I duck his first thrust and then grab one of the other members and push him into the knife, which enters his chest.

"AAGHHH!" cries the victim. Jeez, that was easy. Suddenly, I am grabbed from behind, my cape is wrapped over my face and I feel myself being pressed into the ground and punched repeatedly in the gut.

"How you like me now?!" I hear a voice say. "Gon' cry to Bats? Huh, chickie?" says another. I would be able to fight back even without my sight, but I can't breathe on account of my cape being made of such strong material. All I can do is flail and kick, and hope that my father comes in and rescues me.

And he does. I can hear him beating the crap out of these petty thugs. As soon as they're off of me, I can get my cape untangled from my face and gasp for breath. I sit up, but as soon as I do, Batman grabs me around the waist and lifts me into the air by his tether, just as Gordon and his men surround the place. Our work here is done.

"What were you doing?!" yells Batman, after he sets me down on a nearby rooftop. I'm still trying to catch my breath.

"What?" I gasp.

"I told you to disable their weapons and get out!" he yells again. "It could not be any simpler!"

"I couldn't just-"

"Yes, you could! You were supposed to get in and out! Instead, you nearly got yourself killed! Which I KNEW would happen, which is specifically why I gave you an order to smash their weapons and GO! Why would you do the EXACT OPPOSITE of what I ordered you to?!"

I flinch and look down, ashamed that I've messed up so many times in one night. I was too self-absorbed, too busy thinking about things when I should have had my head in the game. I say nothing.

"We're going home," growls Batman. And he wastes no time grabbing me by my upper arm, dragging me with him like a disobedient child, which I suppose I am tonight.

In the car, we don't exchange many words. I can tell he thinks he's been too hard on me, and he can probably tell that I feel bad enough about it, so yelling at me even more won't help anything.

"Maybe going out on patrol was a bad idea," I say softly.

"YOU going out on patrol was a bad idea, definitely," he says, with no tact whatsoever. That hurts. Usually he tries to say something encouraging when I screw up. Not this time.

"_I'm sorry, Father,"_ I sigh.

No response. He doesn't care.

There's that tight feeling in my chest again.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 08  
Please review, thanks.


	9. Who Wrote Holden Caulfield?

**Learn To Love Chapter 09: Who Wrote Holden Caulfield?**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Bruce's POV

As soon as we get home I send Damian to his room. I doubt he'll obey, but I don't have the energy to see it through anyway. He undresses and exits the cave, but of course he could be going anywhere in the Manor, not specifically to his room.

I take off my cowl and run a hand through my sweaty hair. Alfred practically materializes behind me to take my heavy cape off my shoulders and hang it up for me. I sigh, sit in a chair and take off my boots. After removing the aforementioned articles of clothing, I just rest my left elbow on the desk and lean my head in my hand.

"I take it patrol was less than productive?" asks my butler.

"It's not that, Alfred," I say.

"Were innocents injured on your watch?" he inquires.

"No," I sigh. Alfred doesn't ask again what's bothering me; he knows I'm about to tell him. _"I'm a failure as a father."_

My butler says nothing, but his compassion is conveyed in the gloved hand that I feel rest on my shoulder.

"Tim has tried to commit suicide, I can't help Dick, and Damian won't listen to a word I say," I vent.

"The lad still disobeying orders, I trust?"

"No. I mean he literally _won't listen_ to a word I say," I explain. "He was practically daydreaming during the entire patrol. I've never seen him do that before."

"Well, the boy is going through a tough time, Master Bruce. It's only natural he has a lot to think about. Not to excuse making potentially fatal mistakes in the field, but do remember he is only ten years old."

"_That_, and…" I explain. "I don't think I handled it properly. I yelled at him again. I didn't even attempt to give him anything constructive. I just got mad and dragged him back to the Batmobile."

"Master Damian seems to respond better to tough love as it is, Master Bruce. Now is not the time to be doubting your abilities as a father," Alfred encourages me. That's what I need to get better at doing; encouraging.

"What would you do if they were your kids?" I ask.

"I would talk to them. Remind them that this is not their fault. And I would ask them to tell me how they feel, and accept whatever answer they could give me."

I chuckle to myself. It sounds so easy when he suggests it, but of course, when I try to "talk to" my kids, Damian specifically, I'm bombarded with vicious, defensive responses.

"Which son do you suggest I start with?" I ask.

"I last saw Master Dick watching TV in the den, sir. Perhaps he's in a more sociable mood."

"Thanks, Alfie," I say. I change into some regular clothes, and go off to find my eldest son. There's a boy who fogs his world and now he's getting lazy. He hasn't done anything productive since he found Tim on the floor that night.

* * *

Dick's POV

Nothing on. It's the middle of the night, so of course there's nothing on. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I can't sleep, I'm still not hungry, and I have no motivation to do anything else. I guess that's what it means to be depressed.

"Dick?" I hear Bruce's voice, but I can't see him. The only light in this room is that of the TV, and he's coming in from behind it.

"What's up?" I ask, turning off the TV. Now I can see him a little. He's just a black silhouette in an already darkened room. Fortunately, he turns on a lamp next to the couch.

"Just checking up," he answers. "Are you feeling alright?" I shrug.

"Just waiting," I say. "Waiting for Tim to wake up and tell me what the hell he was thinking." He sits down beside me and wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me towards him. "Bruce?"

"_Just tell me everything you're feeling," _he whispers. _"Please. Anything at all. Just talk."_

This isn't like him at all. He's never been one to want to talk about feelings. I assume Alfred told him to do this, because as smart as he is, Bruce would never have arrived at this decision on his own. I suppose I should be grateful; who knows if he'll ever be like this again?

"I don't want Tim to die," I start. That was a pretty lame thing to say. Of course I don't want him to die. Nobody thinks I do. "I'm sad because…" I feel my chest tightening up again. Man, I can't go five minutes without bursting into tears. _"…he must have been so sad…to do what he did."_

"_And we're going to find out what made him so sad, and do something about it," _Bruce murmurs, still holding me close.

"I'm also kind-of scared…" I sniff. "…that it was something _I_ did. Because that one time he did wake up, he started saying something like…like…_"how could I do this to YOU?"_ …as if I had done something to him first."

Bruce doesn't say anything to this. He actually stills. Not even a breath.

"Bruce?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes," he says, breathing again. "I'm sure it was nothing you did. How could it be? You would never do anything to hurt Tim."

Thank you, Captain Obvious! It's not something I did on purpose! I know that! I choose not to say that, of course.

"And I wish Damian could be a little less of a brat about all this," I can feel Bruce chuckle at this.

"Me, too," he says. "I'm trying to get him to be more sympathetic."

"How are you doing that?" I ask, with a laugh in my voice.

"Well, I'm not doing a very good job of it, since he's been his usual, bitchy self," Bruce admits. "I just told him how he can expect to feel _physically_, since right now, I think that's all he understands."

"Yeah, he's not all that in touch with his emotions, is he?" I say, extracting myself from Bruce's hug. "Um, if Tim wakes up again, will you talk to him for me?"

"Why?"

"Well, I don't think he wants to tell me how he feels," I explain. "He sure as hell isn't going to talk to Damian. And he'll make Alfred swear to secrecy anything he tells him."

"Sure. I'll talk to him," Bruce assures me. "Try to get some sleep, OK?"

"OK. Goodnight, Bruce," I say.

"Goodnight, Dick."

* * *

Bruce's POV

As I make my way back down to the Cave, I pass Alfred in the halls, on his way to his bedroom. Good. The man deserves to go to sleep and I'm going to need the privacy for what I'm about to do, which is talk to Tim.

"Have a good night's sleep, Alfred," I say softly as we pass.

"Likewise, Master Bruce."

The only lights on in the Cave are those of the computer screens, and of course, the medical equipment around Tim's bed. Nevertheless, I turn on more of the ceiling lights, because I do want Tim to wake up. He might be sleeping, he might just be _pretending_ to sleep, but either way, I need to wake him up.

"Tim?" I say sternly.

"_Mm…yeah?" _he answers sleepily.

"I need to talk to you," I say, arms folded across my chest, so he'll know I mean business.

"What's the matter?" he asks, using his elbows for leverage as he scoots himself back to sit up.

"I need you to tell me exactly what happened the night you slit your wrist," I say, pulling up a chair and sitting down in front of him.

"I told you guys, I don't remember."

"Tim, we both know that's a lie," I say. "You never forget anything. And if you had hit your head, I _might_ be inclined to believe you. But you were passed out on the floor, and you've suffered no head trauma whatsoever. There's no way in hell you just forgot. And I know that this was not an actual suicide attempt, because if it were, you'd have left a note. You did this on the spur of the moment, and you know it."

Tim lowers his eyebrows, attempting to glare at me, but I know I've already intimidated him. Anything he tries to fabricate I'll be able to see right through.

"I don't want to talk about it," is all he can come up with.

"Too bad. We're going to talk about it," I declare.

"You can't make me," he says.

"No, but I can persuade you with information about what you're putting your family through," I answer back. "Dick is crying almost constantly, and is refusing to eat. Damian is more irritable than ever, which makes life even more difficult for me. _I_ need to know why my son slit his wrist and Alfred can't keep tending to you in this bed for the rest of your life. Not to mention you have friends and teammates out there whom I can't keep this from for much longer, and you have responsibilities to the Wayne Foundation and many other projects you've invested yourself in. Now why did you slit your wrist?"

Tim looks as if he is about to cry. I've really got to get better at communicating with my kids. I talk to them like criminals, which they aren't.

"_It's stupid,"_ he whimpers.

"It can't possibly be stupid, if you were willing to risk your life," I say softly, putting my hand on his shoulder. "Now please, just between the two of us, what happened that night?"

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 09  
Please review, thanks.


	10. Coming Clean

**Learn To Love Chapter 10: Coming Clean**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Tim's POV

Can I really tell him this? How will this make me look? Like a petty brat, I bet. I slit my wrist because I had my heart practically extracted from my chest WHILE it was beating, all because I overheard Dick call Damian the baby brother he "never had." I was so upset that I started throwing things around my room and grabbed a birdarang from under my bed and sliced open my wrist. That's what I remember, anyway.

And now I have to explain all that to Bruce?

This sucks.

But I can't just make something up; he's already called me out. But if he knows the truth, what'll he do? Punish Damian? Tell Dick? …be disappointed in me?

"Tim," he says loudly, snapping me out of my trance.

"Bruce, I was in a lot of pain," I say, with tears in my voice. I'm pleasantly surprised when he doesn't roll his eyes at this. DUH I was in a lot of pain. People don't try to off themselves when they're happy.

But Bruce doesn't say anything. He expects me to explain myself in time.

"When I went upstairs," I begin. "To get Dick and Damian to come down for patrol…" I sniff and wipe my nose on my bandaged wrist. "I heard them talking." Ugh. This is sounding stupider and stupider the more I run it through my head. How could I have tried to kill myself over something as lame as this?

"Dick told Damian that he was-" I stop and restart my sentence. "Dick was like "Damian, you're the baby brother I never had."" Yes, that definitely sounds like a pretty weak-ass reason to kill myself now that I've said it.

"Dick said that?" Bruce asks. Can't tell if he's genuinely concerned or just saying that to get more out of me.

"Yeah. And then, like, Damian said "No, I'm not!" and Dick just goes…" I swallow, feeling tears run down my cheeks and under my chin, practically on my neck. ""Yes, you are. You're my baby brother." And I just couldn't believe he'd said that. Because if Damian's the brother he never had, _what does that make me?" _I look down and sob, and listening to myself do so actually does make my story sound more sympathetic. Even if it doesn't seem like such a big deal to ME now, maybe my anguish will make Bruce see it the way I did that night.

"So, Dick basically acknowledged Damian as his brother, but said nothing about you?" Bruce asks.

"I stayed there and listened for a minute, to see if he mentioned me," I explain. "But he never did."

"And that's when you ripped up all the pictures?"

"Huh?"

"In your room, among other things you'd thrown around, there was a bunch of pictures of Dick, all of which were ripped right down the middle of his face," Bruce explains.

"Oh. I don't remember doing that," I admit truthfully. I must have done that in a hasty blur. "But yeah, I was really mad at him."

"Do you remember what was going through your head right before you cut yourself?" Bruce asks. I take a deep breath and lick my lips. I look at the blankets I'm lying under, and think.

I don't recall thinking anything in particular. In fact, I don't even remember DOING this. Obviously I did do it, but I don't think it was really a conscious choice. I must have done it, like Bruce said, on the spur of the moment. But is that going to be an acceptable answer for him?

"I don't know, Bruce. I really don't remember."

"OK. That's fine," he says. "Tim, as of right now, do you want to die?"

"_No," _I say immediately. That must be how I really feel, if I didn't even have to think about my answer.

"Good," Bruce sighs. He leans down and hugs me tightly. _"Don't ever do something like this again," _he whispers.

"_I'm sorry," _I sob. _"I'm sorry, Bruce."_

"_It's OK. It's OK."_

We embrace for a good twenty seconds or so, and then he steps back from the bed.

"So how's everybody taking this?" I ask.

"Well, like I said, Dick is lethargic and won't eat. Damian's being an even bigger pain in the ass than usual, and I'm just…" he stops himself. "I'm just glad you're alive and that you want to BE alive." I produce a weak smile at that.

"Um…" I'm not sure what to say, so I ask a basic little question. "Have…_I_ eaten anything?" Bruce cracks up.

"Pff HA HA HA HA HA! No, Tim. You've been getting nutrition through that IV that's sticking so handsomely into your arm," he says, pointing to the drip by my bedside.

"Um…oh yeah," I say. "I'm sorry I put everyone through this," I say again. Bruce gets up and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm just glad you're OK," he says. "Excuse me, though. I've got to check on Damian."

"That's OK. I kinda want to get back to sleep," I say.

"Goodnight, Tim."

"Goodnight, Bruce." I watch my adoptive father turn out the lights in the Cave, and then view his silhouette ascend the staircase back into the manor.

Damn it, now I'm hungry. I doubt there's any food down here, so I'm going to have to fend for myself and go up to the kitchen.

I slowly peel the blankets off myself, and then I think, wait- I'm the only one here -so I screw being quiet and yank them off.

And now I'm suddenly very cold; apparently all I've been wearing under here is a tank-top and boxers.

I take a few steps and then I suddenly feel a sharp yank in my arm. Of course, the IV. Well, I obviously won't be needing this anymore since I'm going off in search of food, so I rip it out of my arm. It hurts, but I've been through worse.

Whew. It's only after that small exertion of yanking the drip out that I realize just how weak I really am. Getting nutrients through a tube is no substitute for eating solid foods. Nevertheless, I walk slowly on wobbly legs through the Cave, my feet almost going numb on the cold marble floor.

It's dark, except for the computer monitors, and that's not nearly enough light to guide my way. I take a step, reaching my arms out in random directions, trying to feel for any obstruction in my path.

I take a few more steps. So far so good. Haven't bumped into anyth-

"_OW!" _I cry. I think I just banged my leg on a metal cart, probably one that Alfred put his tools on while stitching me up. CRAP, that really hurt. I instinctively bend my knee to raise my shin up within my reach, but when I do, I lose my balance, and in the dark, there's nothing to hold onto.

Down I go.

"AGGHH!" I shout as I land on the floor. _Shit. _This is not good. I think I also might be bleeding from the IV hole in my arm, too. I'm either going to starve or bleed to death.

Man, it's so dark in here already I can't even tell if I'm blacking out.

What's happening to me?

* * *

Damian's POV

I'm back in my room, getting ready for bed. Titus is by my side; he seems to like watching me do things. He watches me change into my pajamas, watches me brush my teeth, watches me walk over to the window and look out into the yard.

He's sort of my rock, I guess. Not a rock in the sense of someone I can rely on, but more like someone I can trust to stay calm in crisis situations. He rarely even barks. People say dogs are empathic, and can pick up on the emotions of the people around them. Not this dog. If that were true, he'd be barking and howling all over the place. That's basically what Grayson has been doing for the past three days.

I'm getting really tired of him and his stupid emotions. They're sure as hell not helping anyone. He just sits in his room and cries all night, and that's supposed to help Drake?

Though I suppose crying is just his way of expressing himself. I don't have time for something frivolous like that. If one is going to express oneself, one should at least do it constructively. For instance, I have my drawings.

Whenever I desire something in my mind, or wish something could be a certain way, I draw it in my sketchbook.

I don't have the urge to draw right now, but since I've reminded myself of it, I guess flipping through a few of my previous creations wouldn't hurt.

"Come here, Titus," I mumble, sitting down on my bed with my sketchbook. "These are some of my…personal fantasies, if you will." I turn the pages and show them to my dog. I know he doesn't care, but I have no one else to talk to.

I turn a few more pages before I notice that one drawing is out of place. This drawing of me holding Drake's head in my left hand and a machete in my right, is NOT supposed to be here in the middle. I put it in the back.

Someone has been in here.

Someone has been going through my drawings. My personal belongings.

Father? No. He already knows I draw morbid shit like this. Pennyworth? No, he'd be smart enough not to put the picture in the wrong place.

Drake? Maybe he saw this and then went to kill himself? No- wait- I know he couldn't have; he was mad at Grayson for sure. That's why he ripped up all those pictures.

…right?

I slam the cover closed and set the book down on my bed. I shift my eyes around my room and I come across a coffee mug on the mantle.

It's Grayson's. I know it. He was here. HE WENT THROUGH MY PRIVATE SKETCHBOOK.

Oh…he is going to GET IT! I'm going to march right down the hall, barge into his room, and beat the living hell out of him until he's as dead as Drake wants to be!

With my shoulders raised and my fists clenched, I stomp towards my bedroom door.

Unfortunately, before I can dramatically open it, it opens, and my father stands before me.

"Damian?" he asks. I quickly lower my shoulders and put my hands innocently behind my back.

"Father," I say. Not a hello, not a question, just acknowledging him.

"How are you feeling?" he asks. I almost ask him why, and then I figure he must be referring to my getting pummeled by that gang earlier tonight.

"Fine. Just going to bed," I mumble, turning around and going back to my bed. He follows me to it and pulls the covers back for me, as if I'm incapable of doing that myself.

"Glad to hear it," he says. I lie down, and stare up at him as he smiles lovingly at me and pulls the covers up to my neck.

"Are you worried at all?" I ask softly. "About Drake?" He nods. "Well, I'm sure he'll be fine."

"Goodnight, son," he says, and then kisses me on the forehead. Ugh! I hate when people do that!

"Goodnight, Father." He turns off the light and exits my room. Titus lies down on the floor, like a tipped-over cow.

Well, I suppose I can always give Grayson the business _tomorrow._

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 10  
Please review, thanks.


	11. Don't Leave Me

**Learn To Love Chapter 11: Don't Leave Me**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Bruce's POV

Morning. Another day, another challenge. Last I checked, Tim was alive and well, and did NOT want to die, which is a big improvement. Things are starting to look up. I'm glad. I think I'll go down to the Cave and check on him. Alfred is probably already up making breakfast. I'll leave him to that, I need to see Tim.

I stealthily make my way down to the Cave, and turn on the lights. I am not pleased with what I see.

Tim is lying on the floor near his medical bed, looking pale and contorted, as if he fell down in an uncomfortable position and just stayed that way. His IV is disconnected from his arm, and there's a rather large scab forming on the hole in his skin where it had been.

Did he fall out of bed? Did he try to hurt himself again? What is this? What happened?!

Oh, there's no time for that! I hastily lift him up and try to talk to him.

"Tim? Tim, wake up! Can you hear me?! TIM!" Nothing. He's unconscious, though alive. I lay him down in the bed again and press a cloth to the wound on his arm. ARGH! What am I doing? I should call Alfred! He's better at this than me.

"ALFRED!" I call on my comm that's attached to my cuff. "GET TO THE CAVE, NOW! TIM IS HURT!"

Within seconds, my butler arrives, ready to patch up my son.

"My word!" he cries, rolling up his sleeves and pulling on rubber gloves. "Master Bruce, inform Master Dick at once!"

I don't want to leave Tim, but Alfred's right; Dick would want to know about this immediately, so I rush upstairs to tell him.

* * *

Damian's POV

I can hear some kind of muffled yelling through my bedroom walls. Can't tell if it's people arguing or what, but it's woken me up.

Sitting up in bed, I try to remember what my plans were for today. I know I went to bed angry about something, but what?

Oh yeah. Grayson went through my sketchbook behind my back. He must be reprimanded.

I get up, and practically trip over Titus as I make my way over to my desk to pick up my book.

"Oh! _Sorry, Titus!" _I hiss as I stumble over his enormous body. "I just have to go kill someone, then I'll have Pennyworth feed you, OK?"

Now, how should I do this? Should I sneak in like a cat and bash him when he isn't looking? No, direct will be more frightening to him. Plus, I have to make it clear that I'm angry. I make my way to the door when I quickly remember something.

"Ah! The mug!" I say. I _guess _I'm talking to my dog; there's no one else in the room. I turn back to the mantle and take Grayson's half-empty coffee mug. I chuck the remaining liquid in it into the fireplace, where it leaves a brown splash-stain on the bricks. Probably won't come out, either.

Mug in one hand and sketchbook under my arm, I open the door to my room and march out into the hall.

Turning on my heel, I make a beeline towards Grayson's room; from which I'm sure that muffled noise is coming.

Alright, how should I do this? Should I kick open both the doors? Nah, that's too humorous. I'm pissed off, I must remember. I think just shoving them open will work. So that's what I do.

I turn the knob on one of the doors, to get it unattached from the other door, and shove it forward, quickly doing the same to the other so it looks like I've opened them simultaneously.

And before me lies Grayson, on his bed, with my fath-

CRASH! I hurl the mug at the wall right above his head.

Oh, shit! My father is there with him? Pennyworth is here, too? Alright, maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I'd better start talking while they're all stunned.

"YOU WERE IN MY ROOM!" I yell at Grayson. I need to say these words quickly (but not too quickly), before my father can interrupt and stop me.

"What?" asks Grayson. I climb up on his bed, now standing taller than him (since he's lying down), and hold my sketchbook in front of him.

"YOU WENT IN MY ROOM WITHOUT MY PERMISSION, AND WENT THROUGH MY PERSONAL BELONGINGS!" I scream. Grayson raises one eyebrow at me, as though I'm insane, so I get down on my knees, closer to his level, and hit him in the arm with my book.

"OW! Damian, you son of a-!"

"Damian, stop it!" yells Father.

"He invaded my privacy!" I grumble. "He has no respect for personal property!"

"Damian, will you shut up?! Tim had a relapse! We found him collapsed on the Cave floor, bleeding from his arm!" Father informs me.

Shit. This was obviously not the time for my outburst. Now I just look stupid. Of course, I can't admit that.

"Well, maybe he wouldn't have if Grayson had been keeping an eye on him instead of _sticking his nose in other peoples' business!"_ I growl. I know it's completely irrelevant, since Grayson was not _in_ my room last night. But I can't stop now, I'm on a roll.

"Damn it, Damian, quit thinking of yourself for once!" cries Grayson, sweeping his hand and knocking my sketchbook out of my arms and onto the floor; pages and pages flutter out everywhere. This reminds me of something I can use against him. Something I've been wanting to for days now.

"Tim has lost even more blood! He's unconscious again, and all you can think about is who looked at your STUPID SKETCHBOOK!?" my brother screams. "I WANT ANSWERS!"

"Oh, you want an answer? HE DID IT BECAUSE OF YOU!" I scream. Father and Grayson both look at me with wide, horrified eyes. Now that the shit has hit the fan, I'm pretty sure they'll stop yelling at me.

* * *

Bruce's POV

I hold my breath for a second as I turn back and look in Dick's eyes. Horrified, his mouth slowly opens a little, and his jaw quivers with silent sobs.

"…what?"

"You heard me. I have pretty solid evidence that when Drake slit his wrist, he was upset about something that YOU did. And Father knows this, too. He just didn't want me to tell you because he didn't think you could handle it."

"Bruce? What do you know?" Dick demands.

"I was only going to keep it from you until you got a hold of yourself and the situation," I attempt. "I didn't want to tell you while you were still so freaked out-"

"What do you know? TELL ME!" he screams.

"I found, in Drake's room, dozens of photos of you. All of which were ripped in half, right down your face. He destroyed every picture he had of you, as well as pictures with the two of you in it."

"Why didn't you tell me?!" screams Dick, tears pouring out of his eyes.

"Like I said, Father didn't think you could handle it," says Damian, smugly.

"Where are they?!"

"In my room. I'll be more than happy to show you if you can stop crying like an infant."

"Damian, that's enough!" I bellow. "I'm sorry, Dick. It's true." In an instant, Dick is up and following Damian to see the pictures.

Alfred and I catch up to them a moment later. Dick is kneeling on the floor, clutching four or five taped-up photos in each of his hands, and he's shaking.

_"Why?"_ he sobs softly. _"Why didn't he tell me? What did I do?"_

"Jeez, it's not that implausible that he would try to kill himself because of you," sneers my son. I don't know if I want to scold Damian or comfort Dick.

_"No,"_ Dick whispers. His breathing become rapid and labored. _"No. No. No. NO, NO, NO!"_ he sobs, collapsing to the floor.

"Dick, it's alright!" I exclaim, rushing to his side, resting my hands on his quaking shoulders.

"He's having a panic attack," Alfred declares. "No doubt brought on by starvation. He hasn't eaten in days."

"Dick, it's OK. Deep breaths. Deep breaths, come on," I coach, lifting him up a little and cradling him in my arms, still on the floor.

_"No, no, no!"_ he sobs, gasping for breath.

"Alfred, get me a cold cloth," I order.

"Right away, sir."

_"Shh. Shh, Dick, it's alright. Nothing has happened that you can't take back. Tim's still alive. He's going to be OK. You haven't done anything wrong,"_ I assure him, wiping tears out of his eyes.

Alfred returns in a second with a cold washcloth, and I take it and press it gently to my eldest son's forehead. _"Shh. It's OK. Everything's OK, Dick."_

* * *

Damian's POV

That's it. Someone has to knock some sense into Drake, and it looks like it's going to have to be me.

Am I the only sane person in this household? Grayson's hit rock bottom, Father is preoccupied comforting him and Pennyworth is playing nursemaid to the crying man. Looks like I'm the only member of this family that can still function.

I will not have this. I will not allow my family to crumble into a useless pile of pathetic human beings just because Drake decided to make a little cry for attention. He's done too much damage and he must be stopped.

I arrive in the Cave, alone, save for Drake's unconscious form. I sit down in a chair beside him, and I can feel my muscles tense as I stare at his pale, lifeless face.

"Well, I hope you're proud of yourself, Drake," I say coldly. "The whole family is falling apart and it's all your fault."

He doesn't move. Of course he doesn't move, he's asleep. I suppose that's a good thing, since if he could hear what I'm saying to him, he'd probably leap right up and strangle me.

Let him try, piece of shit.

"Did you ever think of what it might do to Grayson?" I ask, as if I'm a teacher reprimanding a student who has misbehaved. "Did you ever consider that it might send him into a downward spiral and turn him into an emotional wreck?" I raise my voice on the last word of that sentence, unintentionally.

Drake just keeps breathing softly.

"Pennyworth and my father are both wracking their brains, searching every inch of your room for an explanation. Did you ever stop to think about them? How much work you're making them do?" I'm sounding more and more emotional as I speak these words, and I hate that.

"You never considered anyone's feelings but your own, you imbecile!" I shout. My voice catches in my throat and I can feel my heart start to beat faster. "Did you ever think what it would do to all of us?!"

I can't believe this is happening, but the corners of my mouth are starting to sag, and my vision is becoming blurry. Don't cry.

Don't cry, damn it.

Crying is for the weak, like Grayson and Drake.

Don't cry.

Stop crying!

_"DAMN YOU!"_ I shout, bursting into tears, getting up out of the chair and falling to my knees at his bedside.

_"Please, don't die!"_ I sob. _"Please don't leave me! I'm sorry for everything! I'm sorry I've made you suffer so much! Please, just don't die! We can't live without you!"_ I allow myself to just sob into my folded arms. There's no one around, anyway. Who cares? I feel my mind is going insane. Something I can't fight.

_"Please don't die, Tim. You're my brother! Don't leave me!"_ I sob. I hate myself so much right now. I'm not supposed to get emotional. That's not how you achieve your goals. You achieve your goals with power and persistence. Getting weak and emotional will get you nowhere.

And yet, in spite of everything I keep telling myself, crying right now feels good. I keep listening to my sobs and gasps, and even though I sound like a hysterical infant, I can't help myself. I just keep on going and going and it won't stop.

I hope no one sees me like this; at my weakest. At my least-productive. And this feeling, this emotional state…is this what Drake was feeling when he decided to end his life? Could this be that pain that Father was talking about? Is this what it feels like to be…_sad?_

I suppose it must be. My heart feels like there's a fucking boulder tied to it, and no matter how hard I try, the tears just keep flowing.

Even if this _is_ Grayson's fault, I know I'm responsible, too. There's no way I'm not. Drake hates me and I totally deserve it. I've been horrible to him since the moment we met. I've beaten him up, ridiculed him, criticized him, attacked him and done everything I could to spite him. It should be me lying there, two inches from dead. I'm the one who keeps causing this family pain. I'm the one who should kill myself. Why did Drake do it? They love him.

_"I'm sorry, Tim,"_ I sob. Screw using last names. That's one of the things they want me to stop doing anyway, right? Tim is easier to say than Drake, so I might as well. "I'm so sorry. Please wake up. I _know _now_! I understand_, OK? _I understand you! Please don't leave me!"_

I can hear footsteps behind me. I know they're there. Father, Alfred, Dick. They're all standing behind me, aren't they? Watching me debase myself in this breakdown of tears and emotion.

Well, who cares? My brother is probably going to die, and he'll never know that I finally understand him. I deserve to be humiliated, right?

Father stoops down and picks me up, hugging me close and rubbing my back as I cry into his shoulder. I can avoid further embarrassment if I keep my face concealed from the others.

"_I'm sorry, Father," _I cry.

"_Shh. Shh," _he soothes me. _"It's not your fault."_

"_Yes, it is,"_ I insist. I know Father is referring to Tim's obvious resentment of Dick, as evidenced in the photos he'd destroyed; but I can't just rule out the fact that I have tremendously added to his misery.

"_No, it's not. It's OK, son."_

How are we going to get through this? I thought I was going to fix this, but now I'm just as sad and helpless as everyone else.

What have I done?

What are we going to do?

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 11  
Please review, thanks.


	12. Strangeland

**Learn To Love Chapter 12: Strangeland**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Tim's POV

Wow. That was crazy. Here I am, trying to get some rest, and Damian comes in and starts pouring his heart out to me.

I never thought I'd live to see the day when Damian actually cried for me. Or anyone, for that matter. Though I suppose I haven't yet, since I was pretending to sleep, and therefore I didn't literally _see_ anything.

Not sure how I should play this. Should I wake up and let Damian know what I think of him? Should keep pretending to be asleep and spare the kid the embarrassment of knowing that I heard every tearful word he said?

And what about Dick? I can't just keep milking this for attention from him. I don't want him to suffer anymore.

OK, here's what I'll do: I'll wait for Damian to leave, or at the very least, wait for him to stop crying, and then I'll get up and go talk to Dick.

* * *

Dick's POV

"Dick?" I hear a voice say. It's Tim. I know it's Tim!

"Timmy," I say quietly. I'm sure he's had enough of my overbearing emotions for a while. No need to scream and tackle him in a bear hug when slowly walking towards him and hugging him gently works just as well. _"Oh, I'm so glad you're awake."_

"I'm ready to tell you why I did it," he says. I squeeze him a little tighter, to show that no matter what his reasons, I still love him and I always will.

"Good," I say. We sit down on my bed, cross-legged across from each other, and my heart pounds in my chest as I wait to hear what he says.

"I tried to kill myself because," he begins. My eyebrows automatically crease when I hear these words. I can't stand the thought of my Timmy committing suicide. "…I overheard you call Damian the baby brother you never had." My heart sinks into my stomach. He heard that? Holy shit, he heard that. Wow. Dick, you have to learn to THINK before you speak. I would be freaked too if I had heard something like that.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, and I just hang there for a second or two, gaping at him. I should probably close my mouth soon, lest I look like a slack-jawed moron. But what if the words come to me? Nah, I think I'll close my mouth. Yeah. Mouth closed, good idea.

I'd better say something or I'll look totally guilty. I have to explain what I meant by that.

"Tim, that- I didn't mean- Damian's my- I mean you're still- uh-" I stutter. Oh that's REALLY convincing. I can't even produce one sentence to explain myself so all that comes out is a bunch of butchered phrases. Not helping, Dick! Get it together and explain yourself before you actually lose the person you love most.

"What did you mean…_never had?_ What about _me?"_ The desperation in his voice on the last word of that sentence really drives home how hurt he's been. I'd better explain myself, and FAST.

"Tim, I've never thought of you as a baby. You're my _little_ brother, not my _baby_ brother," I stumble through my words, hoping that this sense of _very specific _logic will get me out of trouble.

"Yeah, but, like, I was always the "baby" of the family," Tim continues.

"But I never knew you when you were as young as Damian. I met you when you were thirteen!" That argument isn't going to hold up too well. No matter what titles I use for either of my brothers, it won't change how Tim interpreted it that night. I have to be totally honest here.

"Tim, please understand. I didn't mean you're _not_ my brother. I just meant that Damian is the baby of the family because he's the youngest. You're my "little" brother, he's my "baby" brother. I mean, he's YOUR baby brother, too, you know."

Tim looks down. Was that answer good enough for him? Will the truth 'set me free'? Are we cool?

"_But you didn't even mention me," _he says in a whisper. My heart tightens up again.

"Well, you're name just didn't come up," I answer. "Damian was just complaining and grumping, and I said what I said. But Tim, how could you think that I meant, like…that you didn't matter at all to me?"

Tim looks up at me again. Thankfully, there are no tears in his eyes.

"It hurt," he says.

"I understand," I say gently. I don't want to say anything that he could possibly misinterpret, so I just say neutral things.

"I went in my room, and…" he trails off. "I felt like, like someone had literally ripped my heart out of my chest. _I couldn't breathe, Dick."_ I inhale sharply. I can't believe I could cause him so much pain.

"I'm so sorry."

"I know, Dick. I know you'd never…" he trails off. "At least I _thought_ you'd never do anything to hurt me."

"I wouldn't!" I cry. "Timmy, how could you think I don't acknowledge you as a brother? Sure, Damian and I have a special relationship, but for goodness' sake, you and I have been through so much more! How could you think that meant nothing to me?"

"I don't know," he says. "All I know is, I wanted to die. I felt that bad. I just…couldn't deal."

"Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you come in and say like "hey, what about me?" or something?" I plead.

"I guess because, after hearing that, I assumed you didn't care what I did."

Would it be alright to slap him right now? Because that's the only think I can think of that might snap him out of this pity-fest he's having.

No, no, definitely not. Violence is the last thing he needs.

"Tim, look at me," I say. He looks up, straight into my eyes. I place my hands on either side of his face and try to look as serious as possible. "I love you more than anything. Screw titles, legal terms, words of the English language that establish family members- I love you. You're my little brother. No matter how old you get, no matter how many more people come into my life, no matter what happens at any point in time, you're my little brother, and I love you. And I always will. Do you understand?" I can feel him gulp, and he nods, almost as if he's scared.

"I…I should have known…I shouldn't have…" he says in between deep breaths that can only mean he's about to cry.

"It's OK," I say, reaching forward and wrapping my arms around his back, pulling him closer so he doesn't have to face me with tears in his eyes.

"_I'm sorry," _he breathes. _"I'm sorry, Dick. I'm sorry,"_

"_Shh, it's OK,"_ I whisper, running my fingers through his hair and kissing the side of his head. _"It's OK. It's OK, Timmy."_

We stay like this, embracing tearfully, for a good ten minutes or so. I'm not letting him go. After like three days of absolute hell, I'm keeping Tim close tonight. I'm not going to let him out of my sight. And sure enough, eventually we get under the covers and go to sleep. Finally, after days and nights of helpless uncertainty, I can hold my little brother in my arms; all snuggled up against me, warm and safe, and alive, and _with me_.

* * *

Damian's POV

After Father picked me up off the floor of the Cave where I had been crying, he took me into his room. That's where we are now. I'm sitting in Father's lap on his bed. He holds me against his chest; warm and protective.

"I know he was mad at Dick," I say. "But, I know I haven't been the nicest person to him, either."

"Someone your age shouldn't have to go through this," Father says.

"I've been through worse," I say proudly. "Though I never had any brothers to worry about."

"You still shouldn't have to worry about them," Father reiterates. "Ten-year-olds should only have to worry about school, bullies, making the baseball team…"

"What are you talking about?" I ask. I raise an eyebrow and turn my head around to look at him, but he still can't see my whole face, since I'm sitting back-to-chest.

"Never mind," he mutters. "But just the same, I'm very proud of you, son."

"Just because I lost it and cried like a baby?" I chuckle.

"Because you've learned to love," Father says softly, resting his chin on the top of my head, and snuggling me closer. "I was afraid you had truly no empathy. No compassion for others. But the fact that you cried over Tim shows tremendous growth in you. That's all I could ever really ask for."

"Hey, I never said I loved him," I growl. "I haven't gone soft, Father, and don't you forget it!"

"Son, you don't have to verbalize it to feel it. And it's nothing to be embarrassed about. Loving people makes you a stronger person, not a weaker one," Father explains. I shrug in his arms.

"I just…" I struggle to say. "…I just didn't want him to die because of something I did."

"Good," says Father.

"But that's not the same as loving him. I don't love anything about him, now that I think about it."

"It doesn't matter," says Father. "You would be sad if he died, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Well, that's what I wanted to know back when I first asked you if you loved anything. Remember?" Father asks.

"Not really."

"You said that if Tim were to die, you wouldn't care. But now you would."

"Oh yeah," I mumble, still embarrassed by how emotional I was.

"_I'm very proud of you, Damian,"_ Father whispers in my ear.

"I'm glad," I reply, turning over so I can hug him. He rubs my back and kisses the top of my head.

I suppose this whole…_love _thing…isn't such a disgusting concept after all. My eyes are clear and now I'm sure.

But I'm still never going to say it to Tim.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 12  
Please review, thanks.


	13. Brat

**Learn To Love Chapter 13: Brat**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Dick's POV

"I must say, it's good to see you eating again, Master Dick," says Alfred, as he places a third helping of waffles and bacon in front of me.

"It _feels_ good to be eating again!" I agree.

"Do you have to talk with your mouth full, Grayson?" Damian asks from across my space at the table. He's just nursing a bowl of Cheerios himself.

"Shut up," I mumble, holding my fork in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. "I've got to make up for lost time."

"Fine, but if you choke, it's not my fault," Damian mutters. I don't even care that he's being snotty. I'm just so overjoyed that Tim is awake and that we've made up.

"Um, I have something to say," Tim says softly, raising his hand like he's in school. We all look up at him. "Uh, I just want to apologize for putting you all through this. I didn't think of anyone besides myself, and-"

"Timmy, it's OK. We're just glad you're alright," I say. Fortunately I have swallowed all the food I had in my mouth, so my statement is able to be taken seriously. I scoot my chair back and get up and hug my little brother. "Don't worry about us. You just concentrate on recovering."

"I'm not the one who starved myself," he says.

"Shut up," I argue playfully, ruffling his hair. "After breakfast, want to watch a movie or something?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Cool. Damian, do you want to-?" I begin to ask. But then I notice that Damian is suddenly missing from the kitchen table. "Huh. Where'd he go?" I look at Bruce and he shrugs. "Well, it's his loss," I say, smiling at Tim, who smiles back at me.

So Tim and I watch a few movies, have some snacks, and talk about stuff. Damian continues to avoid us. My hunch is that he doesn't want to get sucked into my magnetic-brotherly-affection field. But quite honestly, that's fine with me. I'd rather spend one-on-one time with Tim anyway.

Soon enough, night rolls around, and Bruce goes out on patrol. He doesn't ask if any of us cared to join him. Obviously he wants us to stay behind and come to terms with what we've all experienced.

* * *

Damian's POV

Stupid family. Stupid brothers. Stupid emotions. This whole week has been one, big, gigantic waste of time as far as I'm concerned. We've all accomplished nothing. Oh, sure, Father and I prevented a gang war from breaking out the other night. Big shit, who cares? And Father didn't even ask me if I wanted to come on patrol with him tonight. Yeah, I know I made a few mistakes last time, but now that Tim has recovered, I have nothing to be distracted by.

Ugh. I can't believe I let something as frivolous as Tim's life affect me that much. Living with this family is causing my self-control to deteriorate. But I will get it back. All I have to do is just focus on what's important- fighting crime, bringing evil to justice. Not worrying about the mental stability of Tim fucking Drake. Why should I worry about him?

I mentally argue with myself as I angrily change into my pajamas. I hate going to bed at this time of night, but there's nothing else to do if Father isn't here. As soon as I button the last button on my top, I hear a light knock at my door. I sigh.

"Come in."

Drake…I mean, Tim…approaches me. His appearance is not one I'm used to; baggy gym shorts that go down to his knees, a black, oversized t-shirt, bare feet and no mask. His left forearm is bandaged, but other than that he looks like he was never hurt.

"Hey," he says quietly. My heart tingles. Ever since we almost lost him, I keep feeling…oddly excited and happy to hear him speak and to see that he's alive. So foreign, and so different from my earlier resentment of him.

"How's your arm?" I ask, trying my hardest to keep my voice in a monotone, so as not to convey any real concern for him.

"Eh, fine. It's itching like crazy," he says, giving it a scratch. "Stitches are healing up." I laugh; it just comes out as a single huff of hair through my nose, but I smile while I do it. Got to remember not to do that.

"Did you want something?" I ask, this time keeping control of my voice.

"Uh," he begins. He turns away and closes the door. Then he comes back, still scratching his bandage, and sits down on the floor next to my bed, so he can look me in the eye. "Alright, I'm just going to come out and say it," he says. "I was awake, Damian. I was awake when you…said what you said."

My heart wrenches in embarrassment, but I can't let him know that. There's no way to know _for sure_ that he was awake, right? So there's no need for me to confess if he can't prove that he was.

"What did I say?" I ask, challenging him. If he can't answer, then he's lying and I have avoided further humiliation.

"Uh… "Damn you!" "Don't leave me," "Please don't die," "We can't live without you," …I don't remember word-for-word, but stuff along those lines." Crap. He was awake.

Feeling my face heat up, I look away. I can feel myself break out in a cold sweat. I can't look at him. I just can't.

"Damian, if you hadn't said that…honestly, I don't know if I'd have had the strength to get up and face anyone."

Feeling like the playing field has been somewhat leveled, now that he has admitted something, I gather the courage to meet his gaze again. His eyebrows are raised slightly, giving him a more innocent look than I'm accustomed to seeing on him. He is smiling with only one corner of his mouth. My assumption is that he doesn't want to scare me away by being too emotional, but he's trying to be nice just the same.

"Glad I could help," I mumble. Yeah, that was a stupid response. Obviously he agrees, as he responds with a chuckle.

"Thank you," he says softly. Now he's thanking me? This is too weird.

"I kinda liked it better when we hated each other," I say. I'm attempting to break his affection but I only make him laugh.

"_Ha ha_! Me too, sometimes," he says. "But it's nice to finally be getting along, isn't it?"

"We are not getting along," I insist, standing up and turning towards the fireplace. "I had a moment of weakness. I was overwhelmed by the thought of someone dying by his own hand and it caused me to become uninhibited for a second. I'm still the same Damian I always was." Why do I just KNOW he's rolling his eyes behind me?

"You also said…you understand me," he adds. Shit! Did he hear EVERYTHING? Why did I say that?

"If you must know," I say. "Father wanted me to learn sympathy. Up until then I wasn't quite sure how it must feel to want to end your life. I wasn't familiar with that level of sadness. Now I am. That's what I meant by 'I understand you.'"

"Uh…good," says Tim.

"Why are you here?!" I demand, whirling around and directing my anger at him. "You said what you wanted to. Go away!"

"_Oh, Damian," _he sighs, patronizing me. "I just wanted you to know that I appreciate what you said. I appreciate that you don't want me to die."

"_Yes, well," _I mutter, unsure of how to respond to him. "Father says I have…learned to love."

"He said that?"

"Yes. Before you did this, I didn't really care if you lived or died. While going through this ordeal, something in me changed. Now I know that if you were to die, I would be sad."

"Well, that's very nice, Damian. I would be sad if you were to die, too."

My heart tingles again. I don't want it to, but it does. It's telling me that I'm moved by his words and that I'm happy to hear them.

"I still don't get how that translates to love," I say. "Love means you enjoy being with a person, want to make them happy, want to make noticeable efforts to contribute to their well-being. I mean…..right?"

"Not always," he explains. "Love can't always be described. It's not always that simple."

"Then how do you know what it is?" I protest. "How do you know when you love someone, as opposed to just NOT being filled with murderous rage whenever you see their face?" My brother laughs at me still.

"I don't know, Damian," he says softly. "It doesn't have to make sense. We don't have to have reasons to love each other. We're family, we _should_ love each other."

I look into his eyes, desperate to find something about him I like, but I just can't. I _don't like _Tim Drake. I think he's the most annoying, useless human being I've ever met. Based on how I was raised, shouldn't that mean I hate him and should want to kill him?

And yet I don't. What the hell _is_ that? How can people call that love? I don't have any POSITIVE feelings for him, I just don't want him to die.

"I don't like you, Drake!" I snarl. "I don't like anything about you!"

"You know what? I don't like anything about you, either, Damian!" he retaliates. I can tell it was more defensive than anything; he's so used to me attacking him that his immediate response is to fight back.

I don't like where this conversation is heading. I got what I wanted; Drake is alive. That's all that matters. I don't have to talk to him, I don't have to get along with him, I don't have to do anything.

"Look, you're alive. Good. Now leave me alone!" I growl, once again turning away from him.

"_Argh! _I just wanted to say thank you-"

"Gratitude accepted! Now get out of my room!" I yell. I don't want to have an emotional, brotherly moment with him. I've already become too vulnerable because of him.

"Fine! Have a good night's sleep, nimrod!"

BAM!

That was him slamming the door. Good. Hopefully with this whole suicide-attempt thing in the past, I can get back to my life.

* * *

Tim's POV

"What was that all about?" asks Dick, coming to greet me in the hall. He wants me to sleep in bed with him again tonight. And after what I put him through, I can't refuse.

"Just Damian being himself," I sigh, exasperated. "I tried to thank him for, you know, caring about me, and he blew up in my face."

"He's, uh…" Dick begins. "…he's still not used to realizing that he _does_ in fact value your life. I think he's scared."

"Scared? Of what? So he doesn't want me to die. How is that even a THING to be scared of?" I grumble.

"He's scared of his own feelings. He's never had a brother attempt suicide before. And you know what? Neither have I."

"Yeah, but-" I stutter. "I get that he's shaken up over everything, but why is he like, _ashamed_ to admit that he doesn't want me to die?"

"I don't think _that's_ really what he's scared of, Tim," Dick insists as he puts his arm around my shoulder and walks me down the hall to his room. "I think he's scared of losing you. Now that he knows how horrible losing you would feel, he's putting up a front to protect himself from going through all that again."

Yeah, I admit, that does make sense. I've probably done the same thing in my life; pushing people away so I won't be sad when I lose them eventually. Bruce does it too. Dick has done it. We all do it. Everything is just so annoying when it comes from Damian.

I guess it just seems like such a drastic change, since he was crying over me in the cave just yesterday. It was flattering, too. I mean, I thought he couldn't wait to start planning my funeral, and all of a sudden he's begging me to wake up.

Oh well.

Nothing good can last.

"I think he's finally realized just how emotionally vulnerable he is," Dick explains as he takes off his pants and shirt, leaving him in just his boxers and wife-beater. "He'll get used to it. Right now, he's probably just embarrassed that he broke down and cried in front of you."

"Eh," I grumble. "He's still a little turd."

"Pfff HA HA HA HA!" Dick laughs.

"Well, he is!"

"No, I know. It's just…turd is such a funny word." I think about what I just said, and soon I find myself laughing, too. "Come on, let's go to sleep."

"Good idea," I say. Though even after lying down and pulling the covers up around my shoulders, I keep giggling.

"_Heh heh heh heh heh…" _Dick joins, also getting under the covers. _"Heh heh. Turd."_

"_Heh heh. Dookie," _I add.

Yeah, we're going to be up laughing for a while.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 13  
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	14. Walking Alone

**Learn To Love Chapter 14: Walking Alone**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

* * *

Damian's POV

It's the middle of the night, 1:01 AM to be exact, and I can't fall asleep. I just keep thinking about love, and what it means.

I can understand romantic love- sort-of. I mean, I get that two people are physically attracted to each other, then they get to know each other, then they fall in love…whatever. Not something I'm interested in, but it makes sense to me.

The love between parent and child is also very simple and easy for me to understand. A child is born to a couple, or in my case, to one parent, and the parent or parents treasure the child because it is a part of them, made from a combination of both of their bodies, both of their souls. It's only natural that parents feel protective of their children; in the Animal Kingdom, protecting the young is innate, because if the parents didn't care for their offspring, the young would get killed and the species would not survive.

The love between siblings is also not lost on me. While I don't feel particularly close to Dick, I do love him. He can be a pain in the ass, but he's also warm and kind, and fun to be with when we're fighting crime.

But Tim? How can I love him? He's my brother, sure, but we haven't spent enough time together to get to know each other. The only times we've attempted to work together we've ended up fighting. The times we have been together out-of-costume are times when we're FORCED to do so, and we end up fighting then, too.

I hate him and he hates me. Except…I love him, too. I hate him and love him. How can that be? That doesn't make any sense at all.

This is stupid. I wish he HAD died.

Damn it, there's that feeling in my chest, like my heart is being crushed in a nutcracker. So that means that even the thought of Tim dying makes me unhappy. But why? We don't get along, we have nothing in common, we can barely tolerate each other! Why does my body tell me I care for him when my mind tells me otherwise?

I roll over, as best I can on my cylindrical pillow, and scowl at the clock. I really want to fall asleep, but my mind is too active. I'm an insomniac.

I can see light coming in from under my bedroom door, accompanied by two long shadows; someone is standing outside my door. If it's Tim, I'm just going to pretend to be asleep.

The door opens, and my father steps in quietly. He must just be checking up on me. For the sake of avoiding a goodnight kiss from him, I let him know I'm still awake.

"Father?" I say softly, sitting up in bed.

"You're awake?" he replies.

"Obviously," I growl. "How was patrol?"

"Productive. I managed to stop a rape, a carjacking and some vandalism." I can sense what he's telling me via subtext; that without me, patrol was much easier.

"Good," I say, turning on my bedside lamp.

"How are you?" he asks, sitting down on my bed. I shrug and look away from him.

"As you can plainly see, I can't sleep," I grumble.

"Have you spoken to Tim since he woke up?" my father inquires.

"Yeah, we talked," I admit with a sigh. "Well, more like fought." Father chuckles.

"That's nothing new, is it?"

"_Only this time I think I stuck my foot in my mouth," _I add softly, almost not talking to him, but more to myself.

"What happened?"

"He told me he heard what I'd said," I struggle to say, since it's still so embarrassing. "And he said that it gave him the strength to get up."

"That's good," Father says proudly.

"He started to thank me, but I…" I trail off, feeling ashamed.

"What?"

"_I pushed him away,"_ I whisper, looking down. Father puts his hand under my chin and lifts my head up, forcing me to look him in the eye.

"If I had a nickel for every time I've done that to someone, well, we'd be living in an even bigger house."

"_Hee hee hee hee!" _I can't help but giggle. "So it's OK that I did that?"

"Not exactly," Father answers. "It's a problem that seems to run in the family, and not exclusively in the bloodline, either."

"What do you mean?"

"Dick has done the same thing. So has Tim. It's our insecure way of preventing further heartache," Father explains.

"I am not insecure!" I declare proudly.

"Of course you are, Damian. Look at yourself; you attack everything that moves. You pick fights with everyone who tries to be nice to you. That's like the _definition_ of insecurity." The proud, self-righteous look on my face immediately droops down into one of shame.

"What do _you_ think I should have done, Father?" I ask, turning the responsibility of the conversation on him.

"I don't know. I would have talked. Built a constructive dialogue." Man, is that ever what I DON'T want to hear.

"Father, I'm really confused," I say.

"About what?"

"About love. I hate Tim, and yet I don't want to live without him. You say that's love, but it makes no sense! How can I love someone and hate them at the same time?"

"Damian, we all feel that way about certain people. It's called having a love/hate relationship," Father says with a chuckle in his voice.

"_That's stupid,"_ I mutter.

"Damian, I'm not asking you to get along with Tim 100% of the time. I just want you to stop trying to kill each other. You can love each other without ever really saying it. You know that, right?"

"I suppose," I mumble. "I just fail to see how-"

"I know, I know," Father interrupts me, getting off the bed and rearranging the covers on top of me as I lie back down.

"And I don't understand how-"

"You don't have to understand everything, Damian," Father assures me, kneeling down to my level. "You're ten. Lots of things, especially emotional things, just aren't going to click with you until you get older. It's natural. No one expects you to understand the whole world."

"But I want to understand everything now!" I whine. Father laughs and smoothes my hair.

"Don't we all?" I smile at this. My father rarely jokes around with me. "See you in the morning, son."

"Goodnight, father." Ugh! He kisses me on the forehead again! Jeez, if that's a gesture of love, it's one I can do without.

Father turns out my bedside lamp, and exits my room quietly.

* * *

Tim's POV

I feel so calm and relaxed right now. The bed isn't all that warm, but that's good, because if it were, I wouldn't be able to enjoy the warmth of my brother, whose right arm is wrapped protectively around my waist. His chin rests on top of my hair, and I haven't felt this loved in a long, long time.

I feel so retarded for ever doubting him. Dick would never do anything to hurt me. Yes, I'm still a little jealous that he has a separate brotherly relationship with Damian, but what we have together means so much more. Especially since Damian doesn't even like to acknowledge the significance of relationships within the family.

I feel the exact opposite of what I felt the night I slit my wrist; that night I felt empty, weighed down, my chest felt like it had been hollowed out and replaced with an anvil. But now I feel fulfilled and safe. Even my arm isn't itching right now. I feel like I did when I was younger; back when Dick and I were still getting to know each other. Even though I'm seventeen, and more than capable of taking care of myself, I still like that he's so protective of me.

Part of me wishes we could lie here together forever, but I'm getting hungry.

"Dick?" I say, wriggling out from under his arm.

"What?"

"I'm hungry. Want to get some breakfast?" I half-expect him to groan and pull the covers up over his face in protest, but instead, his eyes light up and he grins, as if he's been waiting for me to ask him that.

"Hell yeah!"

* * *

Bruce's POV

I sit at the dining room table, reading the newspaper, waiting for Alfred to bring me my breakfast. A peaceful moment that I savor, because I know it can't possibly last. I don't even have to look up to know who's coming into the room.

"What's the breakfast du jor?" asks Dick, sitting down at my right.

"You have a nose, don't you?" I answer. And that response is met with the loud sniffing sounds of my eldest son.

"Mmm! Eggs, bacon and toast!" he says cheerfully.

"I'm actually more in the mood for Cocoa Puffs myself," says Tim. OK, that time, I do have to put my paper down and address him.

"Tim, that's disgusting!" I declare.

"Relax, Bruce. I was kidding. I don't even think we have any Cocoa Puffs in the house," Tim explains.

"I am happy to report that we do not," says Alfred, emerging from the kitchen with a plate in each hand. "Yours will be ready momentarily, Master Timothy," he adds, placing one plate in front of me and one in front of Dick.

"Thank you, Alfred," Tim says politely. "Where's spawn?" he asks, referring to Damian. I clench my eyes shut in anticipation; I know Damian is going to respond to that with a threat of violence or some such insolence.

My son puts his newspaper that has been obscuring his short stature down on the table and replies,

"Within earshot, if you must know!" Tim grins with guilt.

"Heh…didn't see you there, kid," he says sheepishly.

"Obviously. And if you're so keen on destroying your health, forget the cereal. I'll be glad to fuck you up right here and now!"

"Damian, that's enough!" I yell across the table. By now I've gotten used to his potty mouth, but _at the breakfast table?_ Come on.

"He started it!" Damian counters.

"EVERYBODY SHUT UP!" Dick demands, albiet humorously. We comply. And the only sound that is heard is the little KERPLUNK of Damian dropping a sugar cube into his tea.

* * *

Damian's POV

I sit here at the table, watching my family eat and interact, and I just can't help but feel excluded. True, they knew each other and formed bonds and relationships long before I hit the scene. It's no wonder I feel like an outsider.

I guess that's probably why I've been so hostile to Tim ever since I met him. I was sent to meet my father, though I never asked to, and right when I got there, I found out he already had a son. I felt threatened, disappointed, and challenged. I thought I had to take him out or I would never be accepted by my father. How wrong I was. I kicked the shit out of Tim Drake and all I got was yelled at. Hardly the reaction I would have gotten in the League of Assassins.

Despite the training I've been put through and all the skills I've had to master, I was still always treated like a prince. Mother gave me everything. I was always told that someday I would rule the world, and I guess I believed it a little too much. I never thought that someone would tell me that ruling the world wasn't a good goal to have. That protecting the weak rather than dominating them was a much better path. I see it now, of course, but back then I was still totally bewildered by it.

The rest of the morning is spent training. Father spars with me in the wring, though it's a little hard to reach him. I have to jump an extra two feet just to punch him in the face.

Dick and Tim are spotting each other, lifting free-weights. No one has ever done that with me before. Of course, I can't lift more than about 30 pounds, so there's been no need for me to have a spotter.

"OW!" I cry suddenly as my father's foot connects with my gut. I end of lying on the mat, gasping and coughing.

"Are you alright, son?" he asks, offering me his hand. I slap it away.

"Do I LOOK alri-" I attempt to say, before bursting into another fit of coughing.

"Aw, poor little Damian got the wind knocked out of him," says Dick. Before I can even process the tone of voice he says it in (which is not condescending, but more concerned), I stagger up and yell at him.

"SHUT UP!"

My family is silent. I look up at their faces, and see that they're all…neutral. They're not mad at me for yelling. Almost as if they knew I was going to.

"What?" I ask.

"You're such a brat," sighs Tim, ruffling my hair. That's the first time he's ever done that. He smiles warmly at me, and my heart gets that tingly feeling in it again. Next thing I know, my cheeks are stretching out against my will, and I'm smiling at my brother.

"I know," I say with a grin.

I'm starting to think maybe there is something to like about Tim. He cares for me. Maybe that's enough. Maybe that's all the reason I need to love someone.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 14  
Please review, thanks.


	15. Worry Rock

**Learn To Love Chapter 15: Worry Rock**

Chikorita-Trainer1

T

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or anything else I might make references to.

Author's note: Sorry for the long wait. I was stuck. I knew how I wanted to end this story, but I wasn't sure how to get there from the last chapter. I wanted to write and action-filled crime-fighting sequence, but I suck at that, so I skipped it and went right to the emotional stuff.

Thank you all for your feedback. It really means a lot to me.

* * *

Damian's POV

Father and I go on patrol tonight, just the two of us. Dick and Tim stay behind to guide us using the computer system, since they're both still too weak to be out in the field.

The night is pretty routine; breaking up gang fights, rescuing victims from burning buildings, etc. Not that I'm wishing something worse would happen. It's actually better this way, because it gives me time to think. Not daydream, but think.

Since Tim has recovered I don't find myself anxiously wondering about how I should feel, so it's easier for me to keep my head in the game. I can think about things, but I don't totally drift off.

Occasionally, Dick will contact my father to inform him of another crime being committed, and the two of us take off in search of it.

The criminals seem so easy tonight. Maybe it's because this suicide attempt is behind us now. No more worrying about Tim, now I can just cut loose and do what I'm supposed to. I can't express how content and calm I am, just to hear his voice over the comm.

But also, every time I feel relief, I also feel dread. Now that we have Tim back, how are we going to _keep_ him back? He attempted suicide and he survived. But what if he tries it again, right? How do we make sure he doesn't slip back into that depression?

I guess we'll never know, and we'll never be 100% secure. We'll always be worrying if this will ever happen again. What can I do to help? How can I help Tim see that he's wanted and loved?

Despite these thoughts swirling through my mind, I manage not to make any mistakes in the field tonight. Possibly because Batman is handling most of the criminals. He's so full of energy tonight that I almost don't have to do anything. It's nice to have a little less pressure on me, but I do want to help.

As we drive back home I keep thinking about Tim's mental stability, and I reach a conclusion; I have to tell him how I feel. I really, really have to be honest with him, and tell him that even though he gets on my nerves, I don't want to lose him.

* * *

Bruce's POV

"Welcome home, Master Bruce," Alfred greets me as I step out of the Batmobile.

"Hey," I say gruffly, taking off my cowl as Titus trots up to me. _"Hey, boy," _I say to him, scratching him behind the ears.

"Where are Drake and Grayson?" Damian asks, taking his mask off and petting Titus.

"They have both gone to bed," my butler answers. "This past week has been quite trying on them both."

"On all of us," I agree. "I'm going to grab a shower before bed."

"Very good, sir. How was patrol?"

"Eh, what's to tell? Nothing new," I say, taking off my boots and undressing. "A knocked-down dragged-out fight, fat lips and open wounds."

"Business as usual," Alfred chuckles. "Master Damian, may I be of service?"

"Huh? Oh, that's OK, Pennyworth," my son answers, looking up from his dog. "I'm going to go to bed, too."

"Hey, come here," I say, outstretching my arms. To my surprise and happiness, Damian runs into me and wraps his arms around my waist. I embrace him tightly. _"I love you, son."_

"_You, too, Father," _he answers softly. _"Goodnight."_

"Goodnight," I reply. And he scampers upstairs.

* * *

Tim's POV

Dick seems to be more-or-less stabilized by now; meaning he's secure enough to let me sleep in my own bed without fear that I'll try to hurt myself again.

I've just finished cleaning up the small mess I'd made in my room that night, when I was throwing shit 'cause I was mad. I've managed to fix the bookshelf I'd damaged when I threw a boot at it, and while I had to throw away all the ripped-up pictures of Dick, I know I still have the negatives lying around somewhere, so I can just print out new copies.

The bloodstain on my carpet won't be nearly as easy to mend, though. I'm going to have to call Stanley Steamer or something.

Actually, scratch that. I'm sure Alfred has some magic detergent that can get out week-old blood.

…_man, there sure was a lot of it_.

I turn on my bedside lamp and turn off the overhead light, and climb into bed, when I hear a soft knock at the door.

"Come in," I say.

"Hello," says a prepubescent voice. It's Damian.

"Uh, hi," I answer. He doesn't look like he's come to pick a fight, so I lower my guard. "What's up?" He comes in and closes the door quietly behind him.

"Um, about last night," he begins, looking me in the eye. "I, uh, I didn't mean what I said. I mean, I meant it, but I didn't mean to sound so angry."

I smile at my little brother. Did he come in here to apologize? That is so adorable! Can't say that, of course, lest I embarrass him and piss him off.

"Look, uh, I'm not very good at this," he mumbles.

"That's OK, Damian. Just say what you have to say." I try to be as gentle as possible, since I know how hard this must be for him. I watch him as he turns his head away from me, takes a deep breath, and looks back.

"You can't do that ever again," he states. My eyebrows go up almost involuntarily. Is he telling me what to do? _Why, that little-_

…Stop. Stop. OK, stop, Tim. Don't get angry. He's trying to be nice, so don't take it so personally.

"Do what?" I ask.

"Commit suicide," he affirms. "Do you understand? You can't do that." I swear I can hear his voice crack.

"I won't, Damian."

_"But that doesn't mean anything,"_ he cries, tears spilling forth from his eyes. My stoic persona immediately melts and I get up off my bed to rush over to kneel down and hug him.

"Oh, Damian, don't cry," I say gently. "It's OK. It's OK, I'm not going anywhere." He clings to me and whimpers.

"I don't know why, but I can't live without you," he mumbles. "I know it doesn't make any sense and I know we hate each other, but I don't want you to die."

"I know. I know, it's OK," I assure him, rubbing his back. He sobs onto my shoulder and at that moment I think I get it.

We love each other. We're brothers, we fight all the time, we annoy the hell out of each other, but _that's what brothers do._ I never got it until now. I can't expect him to look up to me the way I look up to Dick. He can't expect me to be protective of him the way Dick is protective of me. We have a different kind of relationship; we're the kind of brothers who can't stand each other, but still love each other.

And you know what? That's fine with me.

"_I love you, Damian. I love you so much," _I whisper.

"I love you, too, Tim," he replies, squeezing me tighter. _"Promise me no dead-end streets."_

"Huh?"

"You can't feel that way ever again!" he pleads, pulling back from our hug and staring me straight in the eye. "You can't ever feel like you're unloved, alright? Because you're not."

"Well, I was being really stupid and selfish that night," I say. "But now I know. I know how much damage I did, and I'm never going to do it again."

"But even if you don't _try to commit suicide_ again, I'm trying to tell you, you can't ever _feel that way!"_

"Well, Damian, I mean," I start, sort-of half-smiling at him. "I can't really control how I'm going to feel. I might very well get depressed again. I won't hurt myself, but I still might feel-"

"Then you come to me," he demands. "If you ever feel that way, like, if you're mad at Grayson or whatever, come to _me_. And I'll help you."

I almost start to tear up myself when I hear those words. Damian wants to be there for me. He wants to be the one comforting me. That is so cute, and _so nice_ of him. I can't say that he's the first one I'll come running to when I have an emotional crisis, but there's no reason to tell him that.

"_Thank you, Damian," _I say, hugging him again. "Are you going to be OK? Do you want to stay in here for a while?" I see his eyes dart over to my bed, just for a second, and then back to me. I smile, and pick him up in my arms, and set him down on my bed.

"Maybe just for a little while…" he mumbles, getting under the covers. He's still so embarrassed that he cares about me. I think it's kinda cute, though.

"Stay as long as you want, little brother," I say, getting under the covers and turning off the lamp.

The only light in the room is the moonlight coming in from the window, and it lands across Damian's face, making him look pale and innocent as he closes his eyes.

"_Goodnight," _I whisper.

"_Goodnight," _he answers. And after I turn over to lie on my side, facing away from him, I can swear I feel him kiss the side of my head.

* * *

THE END  
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